


Nobody Knows You When You're Down and Out

by thingsbaker



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-05-10 20:59:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 42,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5600632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingsbaker/pseuds/thingsbaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone's killing Miss Fisher's former lovers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface (The End)

**Author's Note:**

> There are mild spoilers here for Season 1 and 2, but this could take place just about any time before/during Season 3. It is finished and should all be posted over the next few days.

Her hand gripped his arm, firm through the wool of his jacket, and only there did he feel her desperation. Across the table, Chief Inspector Bernard Malvin eyed them, his expression cool. A dozen photos lay scattered across the table, torn from Jack’s own case files, their gruesome corpses and crime scenes on glossy display. Five of Phryne Fisher’s former lovers lay dead, a sixth in hospital and not expected to recover. And Inspector Malvin believed Jack and Miss Fisher had conspired to kill these men and cover up their deaths.

He wasn’t a bad sort, Malvin: he and Jack had crossed paths before Malvin’s promotion, when Malvin had been a Senior Inspector at City Central. They’d bickered over cases at the edges of their territory, traded stories and barbs at the policeman’s ball and the annual picnic. Jack had sent Central wanderers over to get sorted there, knowing Malvin would do his best. He was a solid, plodding man, thick-necked, cherry-faced, surprisingly well-connected, but he didn’t deliberately make mistakes. He wasn’t crooked. But he was wrong.

“No,” Phryne whispered as Malvin crossed his hands, having laid out the case.

“You have no real proof," Jack said, aware even as he said the words that he usually didn’t believe them himself. Pointing out the flaws in the case was the move of a defeated man, one already planning for court and gaol and worse. 

“That’s where you’re wrong, Inspector.” Malvin signaled to the constable in the corner, a grim-faced lad who handed over a single brown folder. “We executed a warrant on your house today, and we’re conducting a similar search at Miss Fisher’s residence as we speak.”

“Well, I do hope you tidied up after,” Jack said. “My housekeeper is quite particular.” His voice stayed steady, though his stomach had begun to cramp. He thought of the men — some of them likely his men, constables he’d trained, harangued, trusted — sorting through the evidence of his life. His books. His clothing. Everything on display. Miss Fisher’s hand tightened on his arm.

“Though Miss Fisher’s house is so far admirably clean, likely thanks to that very loyal staff, we found this at your home, Inspector.” Malvin opened the folder and slid it over. Inside, a photograph displayed one gold-plated pistol, missing for the past two weeks from Phryne’s usual arsenal and, Jack knew, a perfect match for the bullets found in three of the six victims. “Tucked beneath the mattress. Two sets of prints. Handy, your fingerprints being already in the books,” Malvin said, tilting his big, heavy head.

“No,” Phryne said again, voice lower.

“We’re fairly certain the blood there belongs to Mr. Thaler.”

Jack leaned forward. “That could have been planted at any time —“

“Right, I forgot, because now you’re staying at hers,” Malvin said, not quite sneering. “That’s always been a lousy alibi. Even her house staff couldn’t confirm you were there overnight.”

“Because they weren’t meant to know,” Jack said, trying to grasp at the fraying edges of his calm. If they could stay calm, just stay quiet, they could walk out of here. They could find the answer, the real killer. Calm. Next to him, Phryne shifted, her hand sliding down to grip his, and they’d never really done this before, clung to one another in the station or in the daylight.

“So what was it, Jack?” Malvin’s shift from title to name was jarring. Phryne stirred, silk rustling. She still smelled like perfume, and a bit of mud, and his nose burned with the scent. “Jealousy? Did they have something over her? The boys all think you’re lovestruck, gone mad, but I know you’re not the type. I know there must be something else going on, for a good man like Jack Robinson to turn like this.”

“There most certainly is something else going on,” Jack said, voice too loud, he knew, but he couldn’t stop and God damn it, he wanted everyone in the entire precinct to hear this, “and that something else is a frame job. Malvin, you know I —“

“It was me.”

The voice was so thin, so high, that Jack almost missed it. Phryne’s hand slipped from his, tapped the photo of the gun almost lovingly. Jack turned as Malvin said, “I’m sorry, Miss Fisher, repeat that, please.”

“It was me,” she said, and now her voice had a bit of the old strength. “I did it. I killed them all.”

“What?” Jack looked at her face, her eyes now red-edged. “This is no time for joking. She doesn’t mean —“

“I do,” she said. “I mean it. I, I’ll confess. I’ll confess to whatever you want,” she said, and shook her head, dabbing a tear away with one slim finger. “But he had nothing to do with this. Leave Jack alone.”

“No,” he said, cupping her hand between his, pulling it away from the photo. “Don’t —“

“Constable, fetch us something to write with, would you?” Her voice had all of the old command, but beneath his touch, she was shivering.

“Why are you saying this?” he said.

“They’d tear you apart,” she said, whispering, and a tear fell from each eye. “Oh, Jack, you wouldn’t survive in gaol. You’re police. You wouldn’t —“

“No one is going to gaol because no one has committed any crimes! Miss — Phryne, look at me," Jack said, drawing her face up, fingers damp from her tears, “and stop this. Stop this right now. We’ll — we can walk out of here, we’ll just —“

“I don’t think so,” she said, head tipping slightly toward Malvin while her eyes never left Jack’s. He couldn’t read her gaze, knew his own must be pure terror. “One of us was always going away for this.”

“Then I’ll —“

“No,” she said, and she pulled free of him. “I did it. I’ll sign to that effect, but you must — I must have your word, Inspector Malvin, that Jack won’t be prosecuted. He knew nothing of, well, of any of this.”

“Like hell I —“

“And he has an alibi,” she said, and Jack felt like he’d been punched. Everything sparkled around him, air rushing past his ears. “I’ll tell you everything.”

Malvin had an eyebrow raised. “Why did you do this?”

“Love,” she said, and laughed, a sound next to a sob, and Jack wasn’t sure which one of them it was torn from. “Jack Robinson is the single most decent man I’ve ever know. Honorable. Trustworthy. Loyal.”

“And these other men…”

“Oh,” she said, and shrugged. “They had — information, about me. They knew things I couldn’t let Jack, my darling, noble Jack, ever know.” She cleared her throat, and Jack watched one of her beautiful hands tremble on the table top. “So I killed them.”

“Stop,” Jack said, pleading, “please. Please. Phryne —”

“I love him too much,” she said, and then Jack drew her in. For a moment, she clung to him, her fingers in his lapels, her cheek against his. Her dress, blue-green silk, crumpled beneath his fingers. Had it only been two hours ago that he’d admired it under the lights of her parlor?

Then, with a shuddering sigh, she pushed him back and sat up straight.

“She’s lying,” Jack said. “Malvin, you know she —“

“Could you remove the inspector, please, so you and I can get to work?” Her voice hadn’t lost the emotion of a moment before, but the steel beneath it made his stomach turn over. When the constable gripped him by his arm, Jack struggled, reaching for her, desperate, but the man held and Phryne didn’t look his way. Only once he’d been pulled to the door, his shouts echoing off the cement walls, pride abandoned somewhere in the empty chair next to her, did she spare him a glance.

And in that look, there it all was: that wry spirit, that damned independent streak, and beneath it all, love, and devotion, and regret, and so much damned sadness that he felt his chest grow tight.

The door slammed, and the constable hauled him away, put him on an unfamiliar bench facing an unfamiliar desk at this unfamiliar station, where he slumped and let his head sink into his hands.

How had it all come to this?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first foray into writing for the MFMM fandom, and I'm not native to Australian-flavored English. If you notice any wording/phrasing that needs repair, please let me know! And thank you for reading!!


	2. Two Weeks Earlier - The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two Weeks Earlier

TWO WEEKS EARLIER: 

Collins took the call first thing on a Tuesday morning. Jack was working his way through exceptionally dull paperwork that he’d put off the night before. He’d dropped by Miss Fisher’s house for a nightcap and been invited to join a just-gearing-up party, in which the guests had lingered. Though he’d tried to take his leave, Miss Fisher had said, “Just one more round, Jack,” enough times that he’d struggled to get out of bed that morning.

The paperwork hadn’t been made more interesting by waiting, so Jack had kept an ear available to eavesdrop on the desk traffic. “Yes, ma’am, of course,” Collins said after answering. “Are you certain he’s — I see. Yes.” He looked up, saw Collins scribbling frantically on the desk log, eyes wide. “And your name, Miss —?”

Collins blanched, held out the phone and stared at it, then hung it up. “Sir,” he said, striding around the desk, “a woman’s just called in a body, a man, found dead in a hotel room.”

“Oh?”

“The Windsor, sir.”

Jack had, of course, darkened the door there before, delivering warrants to the well-connected, and he still remembered the concierge’s particular look, as though Jack might have been something stuck to a shoe. It made him oddly eager to return. “Who was the caller?”

“Strangest thing, sir — either she hung up or we were cut off.”

“Right. Well. Better bring the car around.” He shifted the paperwork to the corner of the desk. Hotel calls weren’t unusual, and the staff — even when condescending — were generally orderly and helpful. People lost things, through misplacement or light fingers, with some frequency, and the hotel’s staff had incentive to assist with solving the crimes. The longer he was there, the less attractive their property. He’d probably be back in house by the afternoon.

And the paperwork could certainly wait another few hours. He’d left it the night before to join that party in-progress after a long, depressing day. He’d been called to a prison on the outskirts of town where unruly inmates had killed a fellow convict — a convict who’d formerly been a policeman. Jack had never worked with the man, which was how he’d drawn the case. The investigation had been swift but deeply unsettling; anti-police sentiment was always high in the prisons, of course, but it had been running higher than usual in the town since the Commissioner and Deputy Commissioner had been arrested the year before. Miss Fisher’s party the night before hadn’t done much to improve his mood, but being the last one to go home had helped immeasurably.

At the hotel, the concierge gave Jack and Collins the same ugly look as they crossed the lobby, and Jack had to admit to a little surprise. Surely, the man knew they were coming. “We received a call,” he said, when the manager had been summoned. “A problem in room, ah —”

“Three-one-four,” Collins offered.

“Right.”

It took a brief negotiation, but 10 minutes later found them on the doorstep of a room reserved by Mr. Oliver Brunsen. Brunsen sat at a small table, clad in a hotel robe, head thrown back by the force of a close-range gunshot. The suite was disorganized, but not in the manner of a break-in: this was much more the deshabille of an amorous night and lazy morning, with an empty bottle of wine and two glasses on the table and the man’s clothes discarded haphazardly over the arm chair and bureau. His wallet lay on the side table; his gold watch still ticked on his unmoving wrist.

“Oh dear,” the manager said, and Jack started directing Collins about who they’d need to interview: neighbors, staff, anyone who’d seen Brunsen in the last 12 hours, and the telephone operator who’d put the woman through.

Jack tipped the wine bottle up, taking in the French label. “Can you get us records for room service? We’ll need to talk to the server.”

“Of course,” the manager said, “though I can tell you that bottle is not from our collection.”

“Oh?”

The manager shook his head. “Exceptionally rare vintage. We exhausted our stock long ago.”

Well, that was something to go on, at least, Jack thought. He still didn’t think he’d be back by lunch.

 

<Hr>

 

They managed to finally get back to the station just after lunch, and Jack dropped Collins off for pies before parking the car and heading to his office. His office was empty, the air over warm. The case would prove a challenge, he had no doubt: the crime scene had little useful evidence, and they had many more questions than answers at the moment, but this didn’t particularly bother him. Sometimes, complexity could be quite nice after a run of simple human cruelty.

“Here you are, sir, and the coroner says she can speak with you in an hour.” Collins set a greasy sack on his desk and a file folder with notes and the already developed crime scene photographs, and Jack nodded, grateful. Before he could even thank him, though, he heard the front door open and then the clack of determined heels.

“Hello, Jack.” That afternoon, she wore a crisp scarlet wrap dress and a positively confectionary hat of suede, lace, and spangled shining diamonds, as brightly colored as his office was drab. She wouldn’t have been out of place at the Windsor, he thought, not any day of the week, and yet here she was.

He blinked. “You can’t have already heard," he said, then shook his head. Of course she could have.

“Of course I could have,” she said, grinning as though reading the inside of his skull. She settled herself comfortably on the corner of his desk. “But just in case anything was lost in translation — what is it I haven’t heard?”

“That — wait, did you say why you’re here?”

“Can’t I just drop in to say hello?”

“Perhaps, but I’ve never seen evidence.” He took in the red hat, the matching handbag, and Miss Williams standing at the front desk. “Tell me your case.”

“Not actually a case,” she said, “or, well — I seem to have misplaced a certain treasured item.” Jack managed to keep his reaction to a single raised eyebrow. This could go anywhere. She peeked into his lunch bag and frowned. “I may have been, ah, involved in a rather high-speed pursuit —“

“If you’ve lost your car, I’m of no mind to return it to you.” He opened the bag and set out two small meat pies, wondering if she’d nab one. “Everyone in Melbourne will rest easier.”

“Jack! Not the Hispano. Anyway, in the heat of pursuit, my belongings were a bit, ah, upended, and — “

“And,” he said, leaning forward, savoring for a moment the look of Miss Fisher on the verge of embarrassment.

“And I can’t seem to locate a few valuables… including my pistol.”

That was —actually, that was troubling. “The gold one.”

“Yes. Sentimental value, of course, but also —“

“Never good news to have a personal firearm in other hands.” He was already nodding, fingers brushing briefly over the drawer where his own was already stowed. At least, he reflected, she had the pistol registered legally. “Collins!”

Collins tore away from his lunch (and his sweetheart) almost immediately. While he started rounding up the correct paperwork for stolen property, Miss Fisher continued to make herself at home at Jack’s desk. He saw her hand flip toward the new case file but made no move to stop her. It would, after all, only encourage her.

When she saw the photo, she sat up straight, her mischievous look draining into something pale and shocked. “Jack, when is this from?”

“This morning,” he said. “Wait. You knew Brunsen?”

“I do. Did,” she corrected, staring down at the top crime scene photo. “Charming man.” She sat back just slightly. “Not a good dancer, but I wouldn’t have killed him over it.”

He bit back a smart reply. “Any idea who would?”

“What was cause of death?”

“Nothing official, yet, but I suspect the gunshot to the head had something to do with it.” She looked shaken. He wasn’t sure how to phrase the question. Delicacy was in order. “Was he a… recent friend?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Friend, yes. We were actually supposed to have lunch tomorrow.”

“Lunch,” he echoed, and Miss Fisher looked up at him, a brief challenge in her eyes. They’d been tiptoeing around their attraction for months, now. It hadn’t escaped his notice that she hadn’t been entertaining many, and he sometimes let himself hope any, other gentlemen these days.

“He really was an old friend. It’s been perhaps a decade since we last…” She shook her head. “But our friendship has endured. He was in town on business, he said. Traveled from Sydney.”

Jack nodded, taking his chair back and picking up a small notebook. “Collins is working on getting in touch with his associates. Do you know the family?”

She shrugged. “No. He might have mentioned a sister, but — can’t say where.”

Not a very close friend, then, Jack thought, but he tried not to feel any triumph.

“Well. Any idea what he wanted to see you about after all of these years?”

A tilt of the red hat revealed a matching, slanted smile. “Some men find me charming.”

“I’ve heard rumors,” Jack said. “But if his interest was, perhaps, professional…”

“Oh.” She shook her head. “No sign of that in his note, but it’s not an unreasonable assumption.”

“That was so near a compliment, I may just blush.” She smiled, just a little, which was what he’d wanted. “Might want to cancel those reservations.”

“Yes, I expect I will.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

In the end, she didn’t cancel the reservations: instead, they met just before lunch at the office of Oliver Brunsen’s Melbourne accountant.

“Clever woman,” Miss Fisher said as they pushed open the building’s door. “I recommend her to everyone.”

“Do you?” Jack held the glass office door for her, ushering her into a rather grand old marble lobby.

“She’s been my accountant for ages. I referred Ollie. She’s said she’ll be happy to help.” They bypassed the business directory and the staircase and turned into a small, dark hallway at the side, where a single door sat across from what was likely the janitor’s closet. Not an auspicious business location, no matter the address, Jack thought.

G. S. Danforth, Accountant, had been etched into the glass. He opened the door and Miss Fisher walked through first, setting a bell jangling. Inside, they were met by a curved, empty reception desk, and Jack frowned, wondering where Miss Danforth or her secretary had gone. No chairs sat waiting for visitors, no painting or flowers broke the long dull line of the beige walls. A lone hall tree huddled in a dark corner, the stylish black fur-edged traveling cape dangling from its limb incongruous with the rest of the drab office. It seemed a far cry from the promised opulence of the lobby beyond, but perhaps the cramped location came with a discount. Something in Jack’s training made him scan the room again, thinking that in another circumstance, he’d consider the office a likely front for illegal trade of some kind. Miss Fisher’s vouching for the accountant silenced his concerns a bit, though.

“Oh, hullo, Miss Fisher.” A mouse of a woman in a too-loose purple frock and bottle-bottom glasses peeked out from behind a door.

“Hello, Gillian.” Miss Fisher’s tone was warm. “I missed you at the party this weekend.”

The woman blushed, just a bit, clearly not used to such invitations. “Yes, I was sorry to have missed it,” she said. “Is this your —“

“Ah, yes,” Miss Fisher said quickly, “I’ve brought Detective Inspector Robinson along. About those files from poor dear Oliver.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I gathered them up like you asked.” She disappeared back into her office for a moment before returning with a brown paper packet. “He had another accountant in Sydney as part of the business, of course. His Melbourne holdings were rather small by comparison, but — anything to help the police.” She blushed, again, as she handed over the packet, and Jack thanked her.

“Clever woman, but a bit socially awkward,” Miss Fisher said once they were crossing the lobby again. “I knew her brother after the war. Same story, I’m afraid. Now! I still have lunch reservations, and I believe this will make excellent meal-time reading, don’t you?”

Jack gave her his best serious-work face. “I’m never one to turn down a free lunch. Lead on.”

They ate in a secluded booth at a restaurant where he’d never been a client, and they looked through the thin file from Miss Danforth. All-in-all, there was, so far, a disappointing amount of evidence tallying up in Brunsen’s murder.

“Whoever she was,” Miss Fisher said as they finished the delicate tart dessert, “she was very good.”

“Not a crime of passion,” Jack agreed. The scene showed there had been a woman present, but they couldn’t find definitive evidence of her anywhere. No fingerprints (other than Brunsen’s); no clothing items among his; no lipstick on his collar, no skin beneath his nails, nothing. More importantly, no one in the hotel had a clear picture of the woman. She hadn’t come in with Brunsen, that much was clear, but the room service order and the lack of forced entry seemed to say she had been expected.

“Half the descriptions we got from the lobby could’ve been me,” Miss Fisher muttered, “and they also could have been Aunt P. It’s almost hard to believe that a hotel which so prides itself on personal service has a staff for whom every dressed-up woman looks alike.” Jack actually thought the staff had yet to be forthcoming, fully, about the situation, but every signal pointed to a reluctance to share “house” business with police. “I might have another go at them in a few days,” she said before Jack could mention it. “There’s an element of closing ranks that’s strange.”

“Quite.” As the waiter cleared their finished plates, Jack outlined his own next step: interview Brunsen’s business partner, who had come in from Sydney.

“Mm, I’ll skip that meeting, thanks,” Miss Fisher said. “Going to follow up on the sister with Dot. Drop in tonight, though, and we’ll catch up?”

He agreed. The bill never arrived, settled in advance by some standing account of Miss Fisher’s, and Jack decided not to bother feeling embarrassed about it. He had work to do. Half the force thought he was Miss Fisher’s kept man these days, anyway, and Jack though that trying to change his behavior — or, worse, hers — to quiet the gossips would be a kind of torture.

Besides, he liked spending time with Miss Fisher, liked smiling at her over an inappropriately decadent lunch because there was always a gleam in her eye that made him feel he was in on the joke, too, that she understood her good fortune and wanted to share it. That she sometimes wanted to share this fortunate life with him seemed too lucky to take for granted.

And so he kept to his work, as always, but he looked forward to seeing her, working beside her, sharing his cases and, sometimes, a bit more. He wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, but it was nice to have a reason, on the Brunsen matter, to officially consult with her.

 

The interviews turned up little, and their nightcap had to be postponed, which Miss Fisher promised explanation for the next morning. Jack was preparing to start re-interviewing Brunsen’s other social connections in Melbourne when Miss Fisher walked in the next morning.

“Davin McLandy,” she said, sitting.

“If that’s the name of the person who drank my nightcap last night — “ Jack said, offering a half-smile to let her know it was a joke. She had called well in advance to explain she had a lead to look into, and he'd been glad of the time to do his own work reading.

“McLandy was the beneficiary of most of Oliver’s business interests in his will.”

“Rings a bell, but remind me. Who’s McLandy?”

“I’m not completely sure,” she began, “but —“

“Sir?” Collins’s knock turned them both to the door. “There’s been a body found in the park.”

“When it rains,” Jack said. “Any details, Collins?”

“Not many, sir. He was found deep in the park, by birdwatchers.”

Jack took his coat from the hook. “Want to catch me up on the way, Miss Fisher, or is one murder enough for you?

“There are too many indelicate ways to respond,” she said, preceding him through the door. “Though I am always interested in contributing to the public service, I believe I can more efficiently focus on my lead from this morning. Catch you up over dinner?”

“Sounds fine, situation depending,” he said, spreading a hand to indicate the new case. “Seven o’clock?”

“I’ll let Mr. Butler know to expect you.” And then she was gone, and soon after, so was he.

* * *

 

The new body belonged to “Wesley Townshead, sir, we found ID in his wallet.”

“Yes, good, Collins.” The name rang a bell, but that was almost meaningless. After so many years in the police force, nearly every name or face in Melbourne looked familiar some days. The body — Mr. Townshead — lay crumpled at the base of a broad tree, slumped over himself. Though he had probably been a tall and fit man, he looked more like a broken marionette at the moment, bent forward over his own white trousers. Impractical attire for a stroll in the woods, Jack thought, also noticing his expensive, mud-splattered shoes. He squatted by the body for a closer look.

Quick inspection revealed a bloody impact at the back of his head, probably enough to kill him, but they’d let the coroner decide. “We’re either looking for a very tall killer or someone who could talk him into having a seat,” Jack said after detailing the wound for Collins.

“Right, sir.” Without being asked, Collins began searching for the murder weapon while Jack gently checked the dead man’s pockets and belongings. Other than the ID card that Collins had found and a wallet with too much money to allow the crime as a robbery, the man had nothing unusual on him. His identification gave an address in the north section, and Jack knew he would spend his afternoon talking to the neighbors and, if he was really unlucky, the wife and children that Mr. Wesley Townshead had left behind.

Jack stepped back to take in the scene. The tree’s leaves rustled in the slight breeze, and it would have been a perfectly scenic, even romantic glen if it hadn’t been for the presence of the dead body. Was that what had drawn Townshead here? It was certainly far enough from the walking paths that one might have risked a clandestine encounter. While most women wouldn’t be tall enough to have hit Townshead from behind, if he had already been seated or kneeling, the move wouldn’t have been difficult for a strong or determined lady. Certainly if they’d been discovered by a husband or other suitor, the crime was plausible.

Sadly, Jack found most crimes were plausible these days.

He looked around Townshead, though the scattered leaves over the dry ground left no chance of footprints. However, now, he noticed two small pieces he hadn’t before: a cloth napkin tucked into the man’s pocket and a bottle opener lying about a foot from the body. “Collins, keep an eye out for a wine bottle,” he said, “and possibly glasses.” He looked more closely at Townshead, noticing a glistening shard near his hip. “Though I believe he may have fallen upon one of them.”

It took them only a few moments after that to find a wine bottle and another chipped glass, thrown into a thicket a few dozen meters away. “Well, we know the path our killer used to escape,” Jack said, looking at the well-trod dirt path that led to the nearest thoroughfare.

Collins nodded and began taking notes. Jack used a handkerchief to lift the wine bottle, and it, too, looked familiar. He took note of the vintage and decided he’d ask Miss Fisher about it that evening.

If he could make it that evening. Suddenly, the prospect of a friendly meal and slightly warmer-than-friendly conversation felt very far away and all the more dear for its distance. All that stood between him and that invitation was an afternoon of tracking down new leads on these two cases.

Just that. He sighed, stood, and began directing two newly arrived colleagues in the collection of evidence, wishing for a moment Miss Fisher had accepted his invitation to come along.

Well, there would be a chance to catch up that evening.

When he made his way to Townshead’s home, he found the man was a bachelor, never married, according to his gossipy neighbor. “There were plenty of women about, but they never stayed very long,” she said, shaking her head. “Too bad. He was a right decent bloke except for all of that.”

"Any serious girlfriends? Someone recent, perhaps?"

"Ach, too many of 'em," the woman said, but with a bit of affection. "No one girl really comes to mind."

“Did you ever hear of any arguments? Anyone threaten him?”

“No, nothing like that. He liked the ladies, but he wasn’t silly about it. No married ones,” she added, in case Jack hadn’t understood. “His mother will be upset.”

So Jack spent the next part of his afternoon in the parlor of Lady Lydia Townshead, Wesley’s mother. It was there he began to suspect why he’d heard Townshead’s name before, as Lady Lydia reeled off a great list of charitable causes in which she had tried to interest her youngest, free-spirit son.

Perhaps he would need to consult with Miss Fisher on this case, as well.

* * *

When he brought up the case at dinner that night, though, her reaction was more informed than he’d expected.

“Wes?” she said, raising her hand in a gasp. “Of course I knew him. Quite well, actually. This was several years ago, but -- yes. Darling man. Had a real interest in Oriental sculpture.”

“I’ve seen some of it,” Jack said, remembering the twisting jade dragon from Townshead’s mantle. “Is that how you met him? Shared interests in art?”

Her smile was fond. The candlelight glinted off of her black satin tunic, and one sleeve whispered against the table as she reached for her drink. “A shared interest in the observation and collection of finer things,” she said. “He outbid me for a striking silk tapestry at auction. It’s hanging in my guest suite now.”

“Ah.” Jack fought the urge to say something petty about whether Mr. Townshead had ever seen that suite or whether he’d simply tapestried his way into her rooms. Instead, he concentrated on rich beef tips in gravy that that Mr. Butler had presented for dinner.

“Two men in two days. Jack, this is a distressing trend.” Miss Fisher shook her head, fork abandoned, beef nearly untouched. “I can’t believe they’re both dead. I do understand that the odds of having been intimate with any two random men in the greater Melbourne area are slightly higher for me than your standard woman, or perhaps your standard three or four women put together, but this still seems a bit extreme.” 

“It is a striking coincidence,” Jack said, hardly believing it even as he spoke the word.

“You don’t believe in coincidence.”

“No. But so far, we have little reason to believe there’s any connection. No similar weapons, not found in similar circumstances.” He took a sip of his red wine. “They were, though, men of a similar age and, ah, type, in many ways, so perhaps it’s not so coincidental that they would have both caught your eye.”

She raised an eyebrow, likely to say it was more than her eye that had been snared, but Mr. Butler’s arrival with a late course of vegetables halted her reply.

In truth, it hadn’t occurred to Jack to look for connections between the two men before that evening. Once he’d said it out loud, though, he became curious, and he wondered whether he hadn’t missed something in reviewing the cases.

“It’s not a bad theory,” Miss Fisher said after they’d retired for a martini. Jack was just finishing his first, while she was about to mix a second. He declined. “Two men who traveled in similar circles, similar ages, similar, well, charms — it seems natural they might have more in common.”

“More than you, you mean.”

She smiled. “I’m not quite so self-centered as to believe every attractive man is constantly in my orbit, Jack.”

“Just the lucky ones, then?” He raised an eyebrow, and she laughed, touching his forearm briefly. “I’ll run down more of their stories tomorrow.”

“Shall I drop in or will you find a way to share without my visiting City South?”

“I’m certain we can come to an arrangement.” Now, her grin was almost predatory, but he’d learned how to deal with this, how to lean just far enough into her silence that the smile would widen to teasing and the moment would pass with delight, not embarrassment. As she grinned, now, he smiled back. “Until then.”

Reaching his motorcar, he would have likely begun his review that evening. His empty house rarely beckoned after leaving Miss Fisher’s warm home. However, as he turned the car onto a dark stretch, the back tire began to flap. He pulled to the side, regretting the shortcut: this area had only factories that buzzed during the day and fell silent at night. He managed to ease it over next to a little caretaker's hut, and the man inside was happy enough to hold the lantern while Jack hefted on a spare tire. By the time it was accomplished and he'd given his thanks to the old-timer, he was too tired even to think about returning to the station. So he went home, instead, ready to draw up connections the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for not having this up yesterday as promised! I think I'll be doing every-other day updates for now. Thank you also for the kind comments so far!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More bad news!

When he made it in the next morning, he was greeted with new work already waiting. “Another one? It’s not even a heat wave,” he said, glancing at the notes Collins had jotted.

“Professor Xavier Johansen,” Collins said. “His assistant called it in this morning.”

“Suspicious?”

“Shot in the head,” Collins said, and Jack was grateful he hadn’t yet taken off his coat.

“Let’s go, then, Constable.” He did spare a moment to wish for a few slices of toast, then gave it up and followed Collins to the car.

When they reached the university, they found Professor Johansen’s assistant weeping in the hall, her red hair spilling in waves over her equally red face. “He, he was, he, he,” she tried, then burst into tears again. Jack gave Collins a quick glance, letting him know it would be his task to sort the girl out, then advanced into the office.

Johansen had a spacious room in the building with two high, broad windows at the back and two walls lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The man himself sat before an impressive mahogany desk, the surface of which was empty save for two thick volumes about Herodotus and a congealed pool of blood around his head.

“Well, he’s been here for a bit,” Jack said, taking in the pallor and stiffness of the body. It surprised him to realize that Johansen was probably no older than Jack himself, though his surroundings suggested an older man, wizened in his academic ways. A photograph on the table featured a smiling portrait of the same man, arm loosely around the shoulder of a young man and woman who shared his features, probably younger siblings. A waterfall stretched behind them, and all three wore broad, beaming grins. Family, then, and close to them. Today would be another difficult day.

They spent a few hours in Johansen’s office and surroundings, interviewing the various other academics who had offices and classes nearby. Once the research assistant had calmed, on her second cup of tea, she managed to explain that Johansen wasn’t normally at his office in the evenings at all. “You think this happened last night? He was never much one for coming to campus after the day completed,” she said, then shrugged. “Of course, sometimes, students ask for late conferences, and he’s just so kind — “ This set her off into a fresh round of weeping, but she managed to get up and find Johansen’s diary anyway. The page for the day before was blank after a 3 p.m. faculty meeting, which Jack knew they’d have to inquire about. He flipped to the next two days, hoping for some immediate clue.

Instead, what he saw was Miss P. Fisher penciled in for 2 p.m. the next day.

“Well, damn,” he said, catching Collins by surprise but refusing to elaborate. “Let’s take the diary into evidence, Collins, and get photographs of everything. I’m going to speak with chancellor and staff to see what else we can learn.”

The interviews all revealed the same information: Johansen was well-liked, smart, and refined. He had no current romantic partner, though he had been connected to any number of women in the past. “He had a taste for modern things,” the chancellor said dismissively.

“Do you mean art?” Jack asked, striking for guileless.

“Art, literature, and women,” the chancellor said, clearly pronouncing all three with distaste. “Brilliant scholar, though. Can’t believe this has happened.”

Me, either, Jack thought, but carried on nonetheless.

On the drive back to the station, he tried to convince himself it was just coincidence, but he could hear Miss Fisher’s voice in his head: _You don’t believe in coincidences_. Yet he couldn’t believe she had any real connection to these cases, unless she was concealing something — and that wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. For whatever personal understandings they’d come to, he didn’t believe for a moment that she wouldn’t continue to circumvent his investigations and manipulate the rules to her own benefit or to protect someone. Oddly, he didn’t usually mind, anymore, though right now… well, he had an awkward talk ahead.

* * *

At City South, he had several more surprises waiting. First was Chief Inspector Bernard Malvin on the telephone, looking for an update on the case. Malvin had the job that Jack dreaded most: paperwork, administration, and only the most occasional opportunity to investigate (but that only when someone had mucked up the job). He did a good job running interference between his men and the commissioners, though, so Jack didn’t mind too much taking the call.

“Anything to these murders, Jack?” he asked.

“We’re working on a connection,” he said. It was better to be as close to honest as possible, and Jack trusted Malvin enough to share the news. “I don’t have anything solid yet.”

“Keep me posted, will you? The new DC reads the papers first thing every morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

One he hung up, he had another rude surprise awaiting him. Collins picked up a folder from a junior constable, glanced at the document inside, and said, “Wait. Jameson, are you sure?”

“Just got it from the bar man,” he said. “Saw the receipt myself.” He shrugged, glanced at Jack swiftly, then said, “Sorry, sir.”

“What’s this?”

Collins kept hold of the folder. “Sir, I looked into the wine bottle from the first crime scene, a Chateau d’, um, a French wine? Premier Cru Superior?”

“Right, came from outside. Did you track it down?”

“More than that, sir.” He pointed toward Jack’s office, which Jack found surprising. He wasn’t used to Collins offering orders, but he remembered the younger constable’s apology and felt curious. They walked in, and Collins closed the door, then stood there, just holding the folder.

“Well, what is it, Collins?” Jack asked, still standing himself.

“Sir, that particular wine is exceptionally rare, as the manager said. There were only about 5 cases delivered to Melbourne last year, which is the first year the 1925 has been available. Three went to luxury hotels, including the Windsor.” Jack nodded. “All three have receipts showing the bottles were bought individually over the last three months. None have sold a bottle in the last month; none have any in stock.”

“And the other two cases?”

“One went to a Mr. Alexander Bottiglia, the owner of the Cafe Du Monde. He, too, has sold all of his stock, but all in the restaurant.”

This was a long enough lead-up that Jack felt he needed a stock of wine. “Get on with it, Collins. Where did our bottle come from?”

“The only other case was signed for, well, sir, maybe you should see for yourself.” He slid the folder over, and Jack opened it, not sure what to expect. Certainly, he didn’t expect to see Tobias Butler’s name in the signature line, saying he had taken possession of the case for the Honorable Phryne Fisher. 

“There’s more,” Collins said, voice quiet enough that Jack knew his shock had shown through. “The wine we found by Mr. Townshead’s body was the same vintage, same case.”

Jack nodded. He felt strangely numb. Between the wine and the other incidental connections, this was now too much to ignore. The thought turned his stomach. He rubbed a hand over his face, slowly. “Thank you, Collins. That will be all for now.”

He nodded. “Should I —“

“No,” Jack said. “I’ll be in touch with Miss Fisher. It would be helpful if you could refrain from mentioning this to Miss Williams for the time being.”

“Of course, sir.”

He stared at the file for a moment after Collins left, then looked at his whisky bottle. Going directly to her house after this would be completely inappropriate, he knew, and yet he wasn’t sure he could resist. Should he, even? If he’d been investigating a fellow officer and believed he was being framed, Jack would have gone straight to the man and reported. Was this really so different?

Well, of course it was: he’d never been entangled in friendship, admiration, and desire in the way he was here.

He sat staring at the folder for a while, long enough that light in his office had faded by the time he rose. Collins looked up from his desk, pen pausing over a log book. “Sir?”

“I need a list of all the property found at all three scenes," he said. “I’ll be in the morgue.”

In the calm, quiet chill of the empty medical examiner’s office, alone with the reports, Jack reviewed them again. The suspicion that had been rumbling in his stomach since he first saw Miss Fisher’s name on Johansen’s diary now threatened to claw its way from his belly through his throat, a raw rumbling anxiety. The medical reports revealed exactly what he’d suspected: it was her gun, or at least one of exactly the same caliber. Jack braced his hands upon the edge of the metal desk. At least she had reported it stolen, he thought, remembering that paperwork from the morning they’d found Brunsen. And — at the party, someone could have stolen the wine, could have planted evidence.

He checked one more thing: the medical examiner had estimated a time of death for Johansen that included the time when Jack had been on the side of the road, changing his flat, the night before — meaning he couldn’t provide Miss Fisher an alibi.

He felt ill for a moment, then knew he needed to go to her immediately, warn her. Yet — they would have to be so cautious now, and while he had perhaps fallen out of the habit, he worried that she might not find caution possible.

So he couldn’t drop everything and go to her. No. He needed to keep himself working. He waited out the end of his shift reading the files again behind his closed office door, looking at the property list for missing items, for things that he might have seen before in another setting, for any other thin connection. When the clock said it was safe to leave, he silently slid the files into a leather case, nodded a good-night to Collins, and took a cab, paying more than he should have, to her home.

“Jack, what a lovely surprise to see you so early,” she said, though her brow furrowed. “Though from your expression, I gather you aren’t just here for a social chat.”

“I’m afraid not,” he said.

“Well, come through to the dining room. I’ve been reviewing Oliver’s financial management all morning.”

He took a seat at the table, where Mr. Butler was already placing a new tea cup. Miss Fisher had a significantly larger stack of paper before her than what they’d received from Miss Danforth. “I had them brought over from Sydney.”

“Anything of interest?”

“Nothing. It seems the business interests were Mr. McLandy’s to begin with, and everything else is completely in line with expectation. He had no outstanding debts and no particularly pressing legal issues.”

Jack paused as his cup was filled. “Do I want to know how you gained access to all of that information?”

“Miss Danforth is frightfully well connected. I thought I might put her onto Wes’s files next.” She smiled across the table at him. “You look like you’ve turned something up. Care to share?”

“There’s been another murder.” He shook his head. “Another connected murder.” He told her of Johansen, watched her still under the weight of the new knowledge. “What were you going to see him about, tomorrow?”

“I wasn’t,” she said. “I haven’t seen him in — well, ages. And nothing I’ve been working on touches on his particular specialities.” There wasn’t even a teasing lilt to her words. This news seemed to quiet and concern her, much as the shock of Townshead’s death had the day before.

Jack pulled the files from his bag. “I think — there’s no denying any longer that we’re working with someone who at least has a desire to get your attention, if not to frame you for some very serious crimes.”

When he said it, she smiled, a flicker of relief washing over her face. “You didn’t doubt me for a second, did you?”

“No,” he admitted, knowing it made him a slightly worse police officer but hoping it also made him a much better man. “You’re capable of many things that I probably wouldn’t suspect, but this doesn’t fall into that realm.”

She nodded, still smiling, and then lightly pressed his hand. “Well. Sometime, let’s discuss the many capabilities I have that you find mysterious. Until then, it looks like we have our work ahead of us.”

“Indeed.”

They stayed at the table for a few hours. After some discussion, they decided the best angle to pursue was professional. As Jack took notes, Miss Fisher outlined three major cases from the past six months where she felt there might be hard feelings enough to have spurred retribution. They walked through the players together, looking at who was likely to have the resources — both mentally and tangibly — to do the crimes. That was a shorter list, but still one that Jack would need to follow up on (if he could convince Miss Fisher not to do it herself). They were working long enough that Mr. Butler came through with a third round of tea and to make sure it was still all right for him to take the night off. “I wouldn’t mind staying, Miss, if you’d like me to prepare dinner —“

“No, of course not, Mr. B. I do think Jack and I can fend for ourselves.” Her eyes twinkled. “As a bachelor, I suspect the Inspector may have developed better foraging skills than even I have.”

“I don’t suppose we’ll have to stoop to that, knowing what Mr. Butler’s pantry must be like.”

“There’s a fine cold supper prepared, Miss,” Mr. Butler said. “I shall return in time for breakfast, of course.”

She waved him good-bye, and they returned to their review. Over their sumptuous cold dinner in the kitchen, later, Jack realized that he hadn’t seen Miss Williams, either. “Hugh didn’t tell you? They’re off at some family birthday gathering. Completely appropriate, loads of family chaperones and separate rooms for everyone. He’ll be back for his shift tomorrow evening, no doubt.” She raised her eyebrows. “More appropriate than your presence here at this hour, I would think.”

“And I’m so often hung up on propriety these days,” he said, taking another sip of the wine — a 1925 Chateau d’Yquem Premier Cru Superior, which she assured him was one of the finest wines of the century so far. They’d already been through her cellar and found that half of the case was missing. She’d given only one bottle away as a gift, that she could remember; the others had been in storage, not at all difficult for someone determined to access — particularly during all of the confusion of the last weekend’s party.

The wine soured in his mouth as he felt, again, the pressing danger around them. He could barely remember the faces he’d seen that evening, blurring together into one jovial and oppressive crowd, yet he wanted now to have a list, photographs to review, interviews to start. He wanted to do something.

“Don’t leave just yet, Jack, please,” she said, apparently sensing his desire for action. He looked over and realized that if he felt it, she must, too, and that perhaps his staying would keep her from tearing out into the streets in search of answers.

So he stayed. He stayed for dinner, for dessert, for more drinks and draughts afterwards. He stayed even once she had excused herself to change into more comfortable clothing, stayed long enough that he loosened his tie and removed his suit jacket to reflect the late hour and the empty house. Beyond the windows, the street was dark and empty, the houses beginning to shut off their lights. He hoped no one truly lurked in that darkness, not watching her, not tonight. He stayed because he wanted her to be safe.

He stayed because she asked.

And then she asked more.

“It’s past the respectable hour now,” she said, when the clock chimed a surprisingly long string, “if it’s propriety you’re worried about.”

He looked over at her, the way her hand held tight to the bannister, and he understood that she was worried. That this was both an invitation and an attempt at feeling something else: security, perhaps, or distraction. “Miss Fisher —“

“Jack,” she said, voice so weary, and he looked up, took a step closer. “Let us please do away with that formality, if only for tonight.”

He nodded. The time was late, the wine was still warming his thoughts, and they had been alone for hours, the facts of this case tumbling in his head like rocks worn smooth at the ocean. These men had held her, loved her, perhaps, but he doubted a single one of them could ever have stood here right now and understood two things: for what she was asking (everything), and what it would mean to give it. So he set down his hat, and replaced his coat, then turned, watching her watch him with a bemused expression. “I have some pressing questions about your guest accommodations, Phryne,” he said. “Might I acquaint myself this evening?”

She drew close, standing on the step above him, her head level with his, her eyes wide and dark and a bit mischievous. One warm hand settled on his chest. “There are other rooms where you would be most welcome, as well.”

“I have little doubt of my reception there,” he said, watching her mouth curve in a grin, “or of the level of hospitality within, and yet I feel I would rather cross that threshold on a evening with fewer bloody photographs as a lead in.”

She raised one perfect eyebrow. “Do you think we’ll have many evenings together like that?”

“I think we’ll have many evenings together,” he said, and now her smile showed a flash of teeth, her hand curled a bit more tightly into his jacket, “and so one of them, soon, will perhaps meet my standard.”’

Her laugh was low, intimate. The scent of her perfume filled his lungs, his head, as her cheek brushed against his. “I do respect a gentleman with standards,” she whispered in his ear, and he smiled in spite of himself, comfortable in this game.

“I do strive for respectability.”

They parted at the top of the stairs, Jack finding his way to the guest suite, grateful that he would be allowed to settle himself. Though preparing for bed was easy, settling in to sleep was more difficult, and not for the predictable reason of Miss Fisher’s — no, Phryne’s nearness. That night, he had a sinking feeling, thinking over the list that they had assembled, a feeling that they faced a task too long and a time frame too short.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to keep to schedule! Thank you everyone for reading and commenting as we go -- it's energizing! Should have the next chapter set up by Wednesday.
> 
> The Chateau d'Yquem mentioned here may not be a real wine, though the winery was real and its 1920s wines were rated among the best in the world. I admit to having no idea if they really shipped to Australia... but I feel like Miss Fisher would have found a way!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Investigations continue, official and unofficial.

In fact, it was shorter than he even had supposed.

He woke that morning in the guest room, his suit laid over the chair by his own hand, his pajamas put on himself. It took him a moment to orient himself, and once he had, he wondered why he’d gone to such lengths. Lying in the quiet of her empty house, he thought of where he could have been all night, where he certainly wanted to be. It was foolish, perhaps, to keep turning down this invitation.

Yet when he sat in the dining room for breakfast, he could feel again the logic of it. There was some small amount of safety in staying one step out of Phryne Fisher’s bed, the safety of anticipation instead of regret or, worse, disappointment and humiliation.

Still, that morning more than any other, he felt as though something had been settled between them. Last night, as they had parted, she had reached for him just briefly, her hand warm against his forearm, and said, “There’s no one I want more on my team, Jack Robinson.”

For at least a year now it had felt like when, not if for them, but now — it seemed the _when_ would be _soon_ , like perhaps it had already come. Now, at breakfast, he didn’t hesitate when she touched his hand, just turned his palm over and let his fingers brush against the warmth of her pulse point. She didn’t lift her hand even when Mr. Butler came in with the egg cups, apparently completely unsurprised by his presence. What had he thought, seeing Jack’s coat on the hook still this morning? What, Jack wondered, sitting up a bit straighter, had Miss Williams thought? At least he’d taken a cab over, so even if he’d driven by, Collins wouldn’t have caught him there. At that thought, he chuckled.

“Now come, mornings are never amusing.” Though she looked as neatly dressed as always in a flowing cream blouse and navy pants, both of material finer than Jack knew how to identify, he could see a bit of worry in her eyes, a bit of exhaustion in her appearance. He reached over and fingered the swallow brooch fastened to her collar, then let his fingers rest under her jaw.

“It might depend on the night you had before.”

“Clearly you and I have different ideas of what it means to have a good climax to an evening,” she said, and Jack smiled. She smiled too, softly, touching his wrist, and then they both pulled back and tucked in to breakfast.

Her usual retinue was present that morning, which was as enlightening as usual. For once, though, Jack could truly see the uses for the cabbies. Phryne spread out the list of names they’d put together the night before, a collection of old lovers, recent partygoers, former associates, and potentially disgruntled clients. The two men agreed to check out their share more eagerly than most of Jack’s constables snapped to; he tried not to think about the methods they might use. In this case, he would rest easier when there were results, no matter how they were obtained.

“I’ll focus my efforts on the official evidence, running all of it down. I’m talking to the last of Johansen’s colleagues today before lunch. Let’s hope one of them has some answers.”

“I shall certainly hope for that,” she said, and then briefly brushed his shoulder before he departed.

Yet his plans to focus on Johansen’s case were immediately foiled. At the station, he was greeted by one of the junior constables who looked so thoroughly excited that Jack had no doubt of what he’d hear. “There’s been a murder, sir!”

“A death, constable,” Jack corrected. “Until we know the facts, it’s a death, possibly in suspicious circumstances.”

“A death, then. A very fashionable gentleman, apparently found by his solicitor this morning in his own parlor. Shot.”

Jack sighed. That did sound like murder, really. “Let’s have an address, and bring the car around, ah, Jameson.”

“Yes, sir.”

It took Jack about 30 minutes at the crime scene to establish certainly that this would be another dead man in the string of murders they were investigating. John Scott had been a popular society photographer and artist, exactly, he thought dourly, Miss Fisher — Phryne’s type. A single tipped-over champagne flute in the parlor with a scald of scarlet lipstick made something in Jack’s chest flutter anxiously.

Then again, she had a solid alibi for the night before, he realized, and his entire mood brightened.

The scene wasn’t particularly complex, though they would also need to search the whole townhouse where Mr. Scott had lived. Luckily, he had lived alone, so sealing the scene until they could bring in further reinforcements wasn’t an issue, and Jack was up and away well before lunch.

For his part, with the new evidence of the continuing murder spree and indelicate frame job before him, Jack knew the next few days would likely be his last chance at the case. There was no way Malvin could ignore the evidence and how it seemed to point to Miss Fisher or someone close to her. At best, he’d decide she was the victim, and he’d pull Jack from the case due to over-interest.

At worst…

Well, it didn’t bear thinking about yet. Jack stood to get a fresh cup of tea and a bit of perspective. He still hoped to speak with Johansen’s colleagues that afternoon and, possibly, have a second go at the neighbor by Townshead’s place who had noticed so much about his women.

“Oh, sir, uh, excuse me, I didn’t,” Jameson stuttered, failing to sweep a newspaper under the desk log before he turned around, as though he could hide it behind his back.

Jack made a quick “give me” motion with his hand, and Jameson blushed and stepped aside, letting Jack draw out the paper.

“I didn’t — I’m sure it’s nothing, you know how these rags —“

“Quiet, man,” Jack said, and he took the paper with him to pour a fresh cup of tea. He lay it beside the cooling pot and began to pour as he let his eyes scan the headlines. Nothing above the fold that concerned him — well, except for the usual political shenanigans, but Jack tried to save that reading for when he had time to worry. He flipped the page over when he’d finished pouring, and then he couldn’t move. There she was, Phryne, wearing a dress that looked sheer on the page but had been actually a pale apple green, body-hugging, soft as a whisper under his hand when he’d walked her to her car two weeks ago after they’d crashed a society party to interview the host’s criminal brother. The headline screamed LADY KILLER STRIKES AGAIN, and this was already old news, talking about Johansen. He felt sick wondering what the next day’s pun would be.

The story itself was a jumble of half-truths and speculation so wild that a reader could believe Phryne had either already been tried and convicted and was on the lam or that she had barricaded herself into her home, worried for her own safety as a psychotic stalker roamed the street.

As if even pain of death would _ever_ persuade her to stay home.

Perhaps the worst part came about halfway through the story, when it jumped to an interior page, and a new picture featured both Phryne and Jack. She still wore the apple-green dress and she was leaning on his arm, their gazes directed at the ground, faces more serious than he could remember having been that night. There had been loose rocks on the walk to the car; he could remember her reaching for him, but he was surprised it had been captured on anyone’s film. The caption read _The Hon. Phryne Fisher and frequent escort DI Jack Robinson leaving a party late last week. Robinson now runs the case investigating the death of Miss Fisher’s past lovers._

Well. No way Malvin wasn’t going to take the case away now.

“I, I know it’s all gossip, sir, I didn’t — my sweetheart reads it, and she brought some with a spot of lunch, I —“

Jack sighed. He felt too tired to tear into Jameson for this; it wasn’t his fault, after all. “It’s valuable to be caught up on the news, Constable,” he said, and the boy’s face unfroze for just a moment. “Perhaps while on shift isn’t the best time, but I can hardly fault for you for reading. For believing it, though, I would certainly fault you.” He tossed the paper back onto Jameson’s desk, then glanced at the telephone, wondered how many minutes he had until Malvin made a call. Perhaps he was lucky and the Chief Inspector would take Saturday and Sunday for traveling. “I’ll be out for most of the afternoon. Take a message if I have any calls, but let them know I might not be available for some time, would you, Jameson?”

“Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Returning to his office for his things, he didn’t bother to telephone Phryne about the paper. She no doubt would have seen it, and she would also, doubtlessly, laugh it off. Making the society page always seemed to tickle her, no matter the context. Jack wasn’t sure he could stand to hear her giggle about this one, though, not when it threatened them both.

So he dug into the casework, instead. He spent most of the afternoon at the university, re-interviewing Johansen’s colleagues and friends and students, looking for some sign of who the man had seen in the days before his death. With crimes as rapidly executed and these, there had to have been advanced planning. The victims, so far, had shown no signs of obvious struggle, meaning Oliver Brunsen, John Scott, and Xavier Johansen had willingly opened the door to the killer, while Townshead had followed her (or him) to the park with a picnic hamper.

No one reported anything strange, however. Johansen was a creature of habit who kept all of his appointments listed in his diary. He’d done nothing particularly strange in the months leading up to his death: he rode his bicycle to work each day, ate the same reasonable breakfast at his desk, hired teaching assistants who were eager to sing his praises and mourn his passing, led classes with aplomb and intensity, and left each evening before dark. His personal life was no secret to his gossiping colleagues, either: two of them described him as “fast company,” but in a genial way, without much judgement.

In short, Johansen was either a dead end or a street with too many possible alleyways. If one of his past lovers had killed him, the list would be too long for Jack to cover in time that remained, and he doubted that this was the best use of his time, anyway. He still collected the diary to return to City South, figuring he could let Collins take a pass at telephone contact with a few of the more recent dates when he was next in the office.

He returned to his own office only once he was certain Malvin would be gone for the day, thus forestalling their inevitable conversation. Besides, he needed the extra time to think. Nothing added up. Yes, the men had all known Phryne, but those relationships were in the past. They hadn’t exactly exchanged rings or stepped out together in any exclusive arrangements; nothing made them different from a few dozen other men who had been in her bed or had welcomed her to theirs.

But Jack felt he was missing something, still. Before he retired for the evening, he called Phryne, fingers tracing over the page about Townshead’s property. “Did you by chance give him a gold watch?”

“Doesn’t seem my style,” she said. “No, I don’t remember giving him anything — though he did give me the tapestry in the end. I can’t tell you the look of joy on my accountant’s face when she learned there would be no bill for that one — save a small cleaning fee that’s best left undiscussed.”

Jack rolled his eyes as though she were there in front of him. “Indeed,” he said. “What about Brunsen? Or Johansen? Any gifts? Johansen was found with — well rather a lot of cash, ah, emerald cufflinks, tie pin —“

“Now that you mention it,” she said, and Jack’s heartbeat sped up, “I may actually have given the professor something. Come by tonight, can you? I’ll look through my cases and see if I can find it.”

“Of course.”

He ended the day with hardly anything to show for it. A second sweep of the crime scene at Johansen’s office had produced two muddy boot prints near the exit stair that shouldn’t have been there, given the weather during the day, and they were working on making a cast. They had so far tracked no more of the stolen wine or turned up any sign of Phryne’s missing gun, which worried Jack deeply. He called for an appointment to meet with Dr. MacMillan in the morning, hoping she might turn up evidence their own medical examiner had missed, and then picked up his hat and coat and left the station for dinner.

“I’ve been thinking about these gifts,” Phryne said when he was ushered into the parlor. She handed him a glass of something amber and sweet. “I’m not in the habit of giving trinkets to my admirers, but — I believe I may have made an exception in Professor Johansen’s case.”

That would be something to go on, at least. Jack nodded his approval as she continued. “You said he had cash on hand — was it in a clip, do you remember?”

“Yes, actually. Silver, I believe, perhaps an initial engraved?”

“During the time I was an object of his interest, Xavier had just come into his family money and his new position. He was forever keeping money in wads in his pocket, losing bills every time he sat. It led to a rather disastrous misunderstanding when several bills fell out in my bed. I didn’t notice them until the morning, at which point…” She waved a hand, frowning, and Jack took a sharp breath.

“You thought he was suggesting, ah, payment was necessary?”

“Only briefly, but that was a very awkward time. Afterwards, to show there were no hard feelings, I picked up that clip. It was something of a joke, really. I’m surprised to learn he’s kept it so long.”

Jack sipped his drink. “Well, you are a woman of impeccable taste.”

“Thank you, Jack,” she said, sitting in the armchair next to his. “I do appreciate being valued.”

“So Johansen — it was the money clip. Townshend, the tapestry? That’s a gift from him, though, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but it’s at least an exchange of gifts. I’m still puzzled about Oliver Brunsen, though, and I have no idea about poor John Scott,” she said. “But I will continue to think on it.”

He nodded. This was good news, so far. Better, in fact, was that he hadn’t heard from Malvin that day. He could only hope his luck would hold.

The next morning, Jack met Dr. MacMillan in the bright space she used as an examiner’s office, and Phryne, of course, came along. Since Malvin was likely to remove him from the case soon, anyway, Jack had gone ahead and mentioned the meeting, though he suspected Phryne would have been invited by Dr. MacMillan anyway.

Dr. MacMillan got right to the point. “Hate to say it, but I can’t find anything that’s incorrect in any of these files.” She gestured to Xavier Johansen’s body. “Textbook postmortems for all of them. It’s really not that hard to diagnose death by gunshot or close-up blow to the head, mind you.”

“No drugs or anything else in their systems?”

“Well, alcohol for the first two, but not at a level of incapacitation.” Dr. MacMillan shrugged, but Jack could see the disappointment practically radiating from her. She dropped the file back into its stack with a slap. “Sorry, Phryne. I was hoping I’d see something telling.”

“No, it’s good to know that there’s no lurking complexity,” she said, though Jack didn’t believe her. Privately, he’d wanted to hear that all of the victims had been drugged or had matching tattoos. “Thank you for looking, Mac.”

“Let me know if there’s anything else I can do,” she said. After Phryne had preceded him out, Dr. MacMillan stopped Jack with a handshake, then said in an undertone, “Solve this damn thing, would you?”

“We’re doing our best.”

The rest of the day, though, Jack wasn’t sure he lived up to that promise. While Phryne and her crew ran through the lists of her former lovers, Jack stayed at his desk. It felt terrible to be seated, stuck inside, reviewing paperwork when the whole case was happening beyond the walls, yet he needed to be at his station. He called Scott’s local friends and colleagues, requesting time to speak with them all the next day, and began organizing a plan of attack for the rest of the week. With Collins’s help, he drew up a convincing dossier of the man, including a past Naval record and information about a possible current lover.

Maybe, if his luck held, he’d make it through a few days of the plan.

* * *

It held for only two more days. The information on Scott all came to nothing. He had been seeing a new woman recently, but she had been out of town for three days by the time he was killed and wasn’t due back for a fortnight. His work had been normal, and no one they contacted had the slightest complaint. Like Johansen and Townshead, Jack had found Scott was well-liked and well-traveled, making him a difficult subject for an investigation.

As Jack walked in to work on Tuesday morning, he was greeted by two pieces of unfortunate news: one, a short but again front-page piece in the newspaper, showing Phryne laughing with her entire body while gripping the arm of Wesley Townshead: A LOVER AND A KILLER? it asked. Jack had only to scan it to find his own name, again, sneeringly reported as “Miss Fisher’s step-and-fetch it policeman and rumored fiancé.” He chuckled at that, wondering how far removed from knowledge of either of them someone had to be to spread that particular rumor.

The second news followed swiftly upon the first. Collins greeted him by saying, “We’ve just had a call. The Chief Inspector would like to see you at Russell Street.”

Jack received the news with a trickle of dread. He had no doubt what was coming; all there was to hear, now, was exactly how bad it would be.

Chief Inspector Bernard Malvin was that rarest of creatures in the Victorian Constabulary: a man who had worked his way up, fair and square, over decades of service. Though Malvin tolerated nepotism and favoritism, and had promoted a few of his own, he had never benefitted from it directly, at least from Jack’s knowledge. He had ten years on Jack, and he’d been the senior detective inspector at City Central for the five years before his promotion. That promotion, of course, had come because Jack had arrested his own ex-father-in-law on corruption charges and everyone had moved up a few ranks. Malvin had kept Jack’s respect by calling by after the dust had settled, letting him know that he had nothing but the utmost confidence in him and his work. “I hope we can work well together,” he’d said.

“I shall do my best never to arrest you,” Jack had said, and Malvin had laughed.

“Your best is all I ask.” They’d parted with handshakes.

That morning, they arrived at the police commission building just on time, and Jack swept in while Collins worried about parking. He knew his way to the office, of course, but took a moment to notice again the subtle changes Malvin and the new commissioners had brought upon the place: more young faces at the desks, showing that the house had been thoroughly cleaned. Even the photographs on the walls had been changed out in favor of new medaling honoring the dead and wounded in service.

Constable Theodore met him in the inner office near Malvin’s and gave him a curt nod. “Just this way, sir.” Jack felt, suddenly, the weight of the knot against his throat, felt self-conscious that he’d chosen a tie Phryne particularly admired. Then again, the woman had taste: looking sharp would do him no harm.

“Morning, Inspector Robinson,” Malvin said when he walked in. He was flipping through paperwork, the pink pate of his head visible through thinning hair drawn across.

“Good morning, Chief Inspector.” He’d been in this office plenty of times, many while George Sanderson had held it (before his elevation to Deputy and then, briefly, Chief Commissioner), and it still felt odd to walk in and see the man so completely erased. The desk had been changed to a broad, plain one, away from George’s taste for finer mahogany; the photos on the wall of Malvin’s old war unit, his academy class, and his family homestead replaced the art that had scattered the panels before. It surprised Jack to realize he liked the change: it felt honest, more worked in, less openly aspiring than George’s display. Then again, George’s office had been an extension of his own, striving home.

Malvin looked up, past Jack to Constable Theodore. “Tea?”

“No thank you, sir.”

The pages flipped again, and Jack took a chair at the gesture of a hand. “How’s this multiple murder business going?”

“There are some promising avenues to be explored,” Jack said, “but we’ve not come to a conclusion, yet.”

“Yes, I’ve read your reports on the first three crimes. I hear you’ve found a connection between the men, though.”

“Yes, sir. They share an acquaintance with Miss Phryne Fisher.” He outlined, briefly, the gift connection, and then because he was honest and knew Malvin had read ahead, the wine.

Malvin arched a bushy eyebrow and set down the folder he’d been glancing at. “Your Miss Fisher has… known these men.” Jack didn’t quite trust himself to speak, wanting to correct the idea that she was his while also knowing that correction would be inaccurate, and wanting to wince at the implication of _known_ while also knowing that _was_ accurate. He tipped his head, nodding. “You’ve worked with Phryne Fisher on many investigations in the past.”

Best just to jump in, Jack thought. “I do agree the connection is too prominent to ignore. However, as of yet I’m not interested in her as a suspect.”

The stick figure constable delivered Malvin a pot of tea, then, with a cup and a plate of biscuits, which Jack again turned down. His stomach was whirling already, last night’s brandy mixed with the morning’s muffin. “Does she have an alibi for the murders?”

“I haven’t questioned her over that,” Jack said, “but I believe so, yes.”

“You believe?” One bushy eyebrow rose as Malvin looked up at him.

Jack cleared his throat. Did he offer the certainty of his knowledge? Admitting he was Phryne’s overnight alibi wouldn’t earn him much chance to stay on the case. “As I said, I’m not interested in Miss Fisher as a suspect.”

“And what, exactly, is your interest in Miss Fisher, Inspector?” Malvin’s voice was low as he asked, but the title let Jack know this was a professional question.

“We’ve worked well together in the past, as you know.” Malvin nodded once, stirring sugar into his cup, clearly expecting Jack to continue. “Professionally, I’ve found her instincts nearly irreproachable, though her methods aren’t strictly by the book.”

Malvin looked up. “And personally?”

“She’s become a close friend,” Jack said. He had decided on the wording before.

“Close,” Malvin echoed, but he didn’t ask anything more, and Jack didn’t volunteer. He set his spoon down with a clink. “You know, this is the type of case the papers love. It’s already made some headlines — that Townshead chap was apparently from quite the family. I think it’s important that we avoid even the appearance of a conflict of interest here,” he said, slowly, meeting Jack’s eyes. “I’m not questioning your service. You’ve certainly proven that you can handle yourself in even the thorniest investigation. But appearances matter, too, particularly now.”

Jack couldn’t help himself. “But who would take it up in my place, sir? I — we’ve already had four murders, there’s quite a lot of the investigation to catch up on. And — as you know, not everyone would be as…”

“Good?” Malvin supplied, smiling slightly. “Oh, I’m aware. Is your constable up to date on everything? Seems like a well-organized chap.”

“He is,” Jack said, feeling a bit of dread fighting with some loyalty, “though, sir, he’s only just reached senior level, and this is a multiple —”

“Calm down, I’m not suggesting he become responsible. I might borrow him, though, for the duration — though I understand he has some association with Miss Fisher, too?”

“His fiancée is under her employ.”

Malvin nodded, thick hands now steepled. “Well. We’ll see. Meantime, could you brief me on the entire case so far? I’ve read your reports, but I’d like to hear you fill in the details.”

“Certainly.” Jack sat up. “Do you know who you might assign?”

Malvin calmly poured himself a cup of tea. “Since there’s a problem of conflict of interest, I think I’ll take it up myself, unless you have an objection.”

“Of course.” Jack felt a bit of relief. Malvin wasn’t the best case scenario — that scenario kept Jack on the job — but he was a close second in terms of competence. “I’ll admit, it’s the outcome I’d hoped for, knowing what you would likely be requesting.”

Malvin smiled, sipping his tea. “Good, then. Now get a cuppa, Jack, and settle in to tell me what’s really going on.”

The telling took an hour, and as he talked, Jack could see the holes in his own case. Phryne didn’t have a solid alibi for all of the murders: on the night Xavier Johansen had died, Jack had left her house late, but not so late to make the timeline impossible. He didn’t mention this to Malvin, of course, just as he left out Phryne’s acquiring Brunsen’s financial records. Malvin would notice, eventually, but Jack hoped that by the time he did, it wouldn’t matter because he’d be on to the right suspects.

Back at City South, Jack rested his hand on the phone, intending to call in at Phryne’s and alert her of the change, but it felt, well, inappropriate. Having just been removed from his own case for being too close to a major participant, giving her a warning call about a new investigator would probably not be in the best taste. Then again, neither would having drinks with her that evening, and he had no intention of missing that appointment.

In fact, when he called in that evening, catching a ride over with Collins, she was clearly expecting him. “I thought I might hear from you sooner, though I’m guessing no news is, in our case, not good news.”

“No major developments in the evidence,” he said, taking an aperitif from Mr. Butler with thanks. Collins had already disappeared into the kitchen. “You?”

She stood from the chaise, a swirl of glittering gold cape catching the lamplight. “I’ve tracked down every appointment from that list of Oliver’s and all of Wes’s diary, and none of them knew a bit about me. Same story at the university.” She took her own drink and sipped it, leaning against the fireplace as she spoke. “And I can’t remember a bloody thing I gave Oliver or John Scott. I hired the man to do photos, but that was how we met, not a gift beforehand. I can find no other links between these men, Jack. It’s exasperating.”

He read that word correctly, heard her anxiety and frustration. “So it must be someone who’s tracking your movements, you think?”

She smiled over the rim of her drink. “I doubt it’s quite as close and dangerous as that, but, yes, someone who’s had a chance to observe my social calendar would seem to be involved. And before you start on about police protection, I feel quite safe under my own observation.”

“Noted.” He finished his drink and immediately wanted another, and as if knowing this, she followed him to the bar and picked up matching refills from a silver tray.

She stared into her swirling drink and murmured, “It’s rather terrible, isn’t it? I know I’ve once or twice provided a bit of tarnish to a man’s reputation —“

“I think you calculate the way men become reputable incorrectly,” he said, and the corner of her mouth just lifted before she continued.

“— but I don’t believe I’ve literally been the death of anyone before. Well. Poor Wendell, but he was quite advanced in age, and —“

“Do stop,” he said, “lest I begin to fear for my own safety.”

She smiled, now, fully, then tipped her head, studying him through thick lashes. “Do you? Fear for your safety?”

“Every day,” he said, taking a small, appreciative sip, “particularly when you’re driving.”

“You never let me drive.”

“I believe I let you steer far too often, however.”

“And well done, you.” She stepped back, leaning again against the brick of the fireplace. “What of your day, then? You’ve had some news you aren’t sharing.”

“You should be a detective.” He cleared his throat and, again, thought there was nothing for it but to be honest. “I’ve had to hand over the case.” As he spoke, it was as though a rod had snuck into his back, down his bones: he felt stiff, uncomfortable, like a toy soldier standing there reporting on his orders.

She leaned a hand against her mantle. “Jack, why?”

He stared down into his drink for a moment, wishing alcohol came with answers. “I’m afraid my further involvement would be rather complicated.”

“I like complicated.” She reached forward, fingers slipping beneath his lapels. “There’s no one I trust more than you to investigate this. Well, perhaps me, but —“

“And I have no doubt your investigations will continue whether I am in charge of the scenes or not.” He slid his drink onto the mantle, cupped her elbow in one hand. “This was the order of the Chief Inspector. If I were to stay on, the evidence — it wouldn’t be admissible. And I want whomever is doing this to be caught, quickly, efficiently, and permanently.”

“As do I. Can’t you fight this, Jack? Talk to the Commissioner? I believe he and Aunt P serve together on some board or another.”

He frowned. “I think it’s better to accede to request of the Chief Inspector now, when it’s only the appearance of conflict that troubles him, rather than wait for someone to boot me out under suspicion.”

“Suspicion of what?” She was near enough he could feel the puff of her exhale, smell her liquor-sweetened breath.

“Miss Fisher,” he said, softly, “Phryne, you must understand that I am somewhat compromised in this situation.”

Her eyelids lowered, showing glittering lids and a suddenly darkened gaze. “I should think your motives for a swift resolution are quite strong.”

“Strong, certainly. The purity of these motives…”

“Oh, do tell me more,” she said. He brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers, thinking of what he would do to protect her, what she would never ask (or probably require). Then he lowered his hand, hearing Mr. Butler’s footsteps in the entryway, and picked up his drink. Phryne took a moment to draw away, but she did so completely, falling back to her chaise lounge.

“If you think it’s best,” she said, “I do of course trust your judgment.”

“Always refreshing to have a renewed endorsement.” He took a sip of his drink, the sweetness now welcome, bracing, but not the taste he really wanted. It slid down in a burning gulp. He waved away the offer of another from Mr. Butler, knowing that if he stayed longer — well. He would stay too long. “I’ll call in tomorrow to let you know more.”

“I would hope for nothing less.”


	6. Courtesy Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phryne visits City South... not at Jack's invitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry I'm a day late on updating! I'll post again tomorrow to make up for it. Thanks for reading and commenting, everyone!

The next morning, at least, there were no new bodies. Jack wasn’t on the case, but he was at least connected enough to know it had been a quiet night for once. With the Brunsen case removed, he had little on his desk beyond the drudgery of paperwork and a few new common crimes to deal with. It was enough to occupy his hands, if not his mind, for the morning.

The day dragged on, though, and he finished the paperwork more slowly than he should have but still with plenty of time to spare. Lingering at the desk brought him no news and felt uncomfortable; with Collins out, Jameson and another new man were seated there, and Jack couldn’t miss the way they didn’t quite meet his eye even in casual conversation. Well, he’d known it wouldn’t take long for the whole division to find out. No news held as a secret for long around here. They were, after all, investigators.

That evening, though, he found himself reluctant to journey immediately to Phryne’s home. Having felt so out of place at work, he wasn’t yet ready to sink into the welcome embrace of her lively home and life — and he had nothing new to report, either, so he would feel doubly useless. He thought to call before he left from work, but that, too, felt like a mistake, so instead he dithered, made it home but couldn’t settle himself enough to make much of a dinner, flipped a book over a few times but couldn’t concentrate on it, stared at his piano for a half-hour, and then finally decided to make his way to her.

She had learned nothing new that day, either, as her assistants had run down their possible leads and found no one of great interest. Some had left town; others had alibis; most had no real idea of what had happened or means to pull it off. “No car, no money, lost an eye since I last saw him, out of town, and was in jail two nights last week,” Phryne said, finger skimming a list of possibly disgruntled former targets. Jack sat back in the arm chair, sipping his drink slowly. “A rather long and frustrating day. Any news from your end?”

“None,” Jack admitted, “though I had rather hoped perhaps Collins might be stopping in to see Miss Williams this evening. I believe he’s been assisting Inspector Malvin.”

“Ahh,” Phryne said with a wide grin. “Well, leave that to me. I daresay that’s slightly less conflict of interest, isn’t it?”

“He doesn’t stand a chance,” Jack said, standing. He thought it better not to be present when Phryne tried her interrogation on poor Collins. No need for him to feel double humiliated when he gave up everything he knew. “I’ll call in tomorrow evening, again, or sooner if I hear anything?”

“Please do. I will, of course, share any news I come across, as well.”

That night he slept fitfully, though in the morning he couldn’t pinpoint a reason. He arrived a bit late to the station, drank a strong cup of tea, and spent the better part of a morning sorting out a burglary claim from a drunken woman who’d come to the front desk. When she’d cleared out of his office, her complaint duly lodged, he left the doors open to air it and went for another cup of tea. It was nearly lunch time. He wondered if he should perhaps take a sandwich over to the park for a bit, enjoy the air and the break from work, or whether he might be able to close his doors again soon a give Phryne a quick check-in call. As he pondered this, Collins walked in. Jack greeted him, thinking it was a good sign he’d been out all day with Malvin. Surely this meant they were chasing down new leads.

The discouraged, unhappy look Collins gave him in return made Jack change his mind.

Malvin followed after a moment, then signaled with one heavy hand that they should speak in Jack’s office.

Inside, he paused, sniffing the air, and Jack saw him glance at the (empty) trash can.

Jack walked around his own desk but didn’t sit. “Had to take a statement in here earlier from, ah, a lady who had perhaps bathed in whiskey.”

“Makes for expensive soap.”

Jack refrained from nodding. “Something come up in the Brunsen case?”

“In a way.” Malvin put his hands on the back of the seat across from Jack but didn’t sit. “I’m telling you this as a courtesy.”

“All right.”

“We’re bringing in Miss Fisher for questioning.”

It wasn’t unexpected, of course, but hearing it still made Jack uneasy. He knew what she was like, what she could and wouldn’t do; he’d learned to live and work around her strangely consistent and at times illegal personal ethics. Malvin lacked the creativity required to work with her, certainly, but perhaps he’d be a fine interrogator. Well — she would run rings around him, certainly, but at least he wasn’t the type to get frustrated or mean about it.

“It only makes sense,” Jack said. “She’s got valuable knowledge for the case.”

One of Malvin’s bushy eyebrows raised. “I would hope that’s not knowledge she’s gained from you.”

He was certain he kept his face straight. “No, sir, I think you’ll find she’s quite able to gather her own intelligence.” He looked up at Malvin again and wanted, badly, to ask for more information, but he could tell it wasn’t the time. “Thank you for telling me. Has she already been notified?”

“Yes. I’ll be borrowing your interview room, in fact. Your constable argued that she’d be more cooperative here, since she knows it so well.” He raised an eyebrow as though not sure what to think of Collins’s idea. “She should be here shortly.”

“Of course. Take whatever you need.”

Malvin glanced at the door, then said, “I expect we’ll talk with the household staff, too.”

“I believe you’ll find them all cooperative,” Jack said. He doubted that completely, actually.

“I would hope.” Malvin frowned. “Means I can’t borrow your good constable, though, I think.”

“Ah. Well, I’m glad to have him here.” This wasn’t actually true; Jack had hoped Collins would stay on the case and provide them all with some intelligence.

Malvin nodded his good-bye, then ducked out of Jack’s office. He could hear his heavy boots clomp down the hall. He’d probably made himself comfortable in the spare interview cell, where they as often kept boxes of filing as witnesses. Jack glanced at his phone but knew it was already too late. At least this settled the question of his lunch plans.

He wondered if she would bring her solicitor or if she’d come alone. As a detective, he thought those who tried to hide behind solicitors were usually hiding something, and he took it as a sign to make a more aggressive interrogation. As her friend, though, he wanted her as shielded as possible. He would have stood in front of her himself, if he’d been allowed, and he found himself absurdly grateful that Malvin was working out of City South for this interview. At least she’d be on familiar territory.

It was ten past the hour when when she walked in the door. Miss Williams was with her, but no solicitor joined them. Miss Williams looked more upset than Phryne did, her eyes pink-rimmed and her hands clenched tightly around the basket she carried. In contrast, Phryne looked her usual breezy self. She’d worn a pale blue blouse and deep navy trousers under a long blue coat and a side-swept bonnet, and the effect was strangely businesslike, efficient. It reminded him that she was a professional, after all, not just a force to be reckoned with in personality but also a great mind and an efficient investigator. He hadn’t forgotten, of course, but when she walked over to him, standing nearly at his height in her sturdy navy heels, he gave her a nod of greeting and confidence.

“I suppose it’s too much to hope that you’ll be my interrogator,” she said, smiling to show she understood.

“Sure you’d want that? You never know what secrets I might unearth.” He smiled as he said it, keeping his voice low, and she gave him a quick, grateful gaze, as if to say she was glad they could banter under even these circumstances. Well, he thought, they’d certainly been through worse: no one was shooting at them.

“I’d take my chances, Inspector,” she said, and she reached over to straighten his lapel just as Malvin’s treads again rang heavily down the hall.

“Go easy on him,” Jack murmured in the moment before the Chief Inspector appeared.

“Miss Fisher, if you would,” he said, and she nodded, winked at Jack, and then disappeared from his door.

Jack fully expected Miss Williams to stay engaged at the front desk for the entirety of Phryne’s interview. He’d already given himself over to the idea that his focus would be divided, and he didn’t have it in him to come down on Collins for the same. It surprised him, however, when Miss Williams knocked lightly on his door. “Yes, come in.”

“Inspector, I brought you some lunch,” she said, the forthright tone almost reminiscent of her employer.

Jack blinked. “For me?”

“Mr. Butler made sandwiches,” she said. “We thought — well, it just seems like a day when we all might need some additional sustenance.” Her smile was a nervous flash and then gone, as it so often was in his presence. Jack was used to making people nervous, but it still bothered him, on occasion, that he could elicit that response from Miss Williams. She’d grown so much bolder under Phryne’s tutelage.

“That’s very kind.” He stared at the picnic hamper for a moment, thinking of the first time that Phryne had brought him food. It seemed a trivial amount of time since that had happened, and yet — and yet, more and more, their time together was everything.

“I also have this thermos of tea,” she said, hefting the item from its case. “I’ve had what Hugh makes, after all, and —“

“I would never malign my constable’s work,” Jack said, managing what he hoped was a conspirator’s smile, “but I believe even he prefers your brew.”

“Yes, sir, if he knows what’s good for him.” She smiled at that and it stayed on her face just a moment longer. He watched her narrow her eyes and square her shoulders and wondered what might come next. Was there a price for the food? Some favor for Phryne? Surely she knew better than to think she needed Dorothy Williams to plead her case, when he was always at her service.

Even though, at the moment, he felt as though he was probably slightly less useful to Phryne than this thermos of tea would have been.

Maybe that passed across his face. Maybe she’d just spent so much time with Phryne that Miss Williams could now sense a mood from 10 paces. Whatever it was, she squared her shoulders again and said, “It’s not much of a day for eating alone, either, sir, and I’m sure Miss Fisher wouldn’t be pleased with me at all if I simply dropped this food and scarpered. Come sit at the desk with Hugh and I.”

“I — I do have some matters to attend to,” he said, not particularly relishing the thought of being in company for the next hour.

“Nonsense,” she said, sounding so like Phryne now that he felt a smile creep onto his face, and he saw Miss Williams blush. She pushed on, though, bold girl that she’d become. “There’s no paperwork that takes precedence over a healthy meal, and you’re of no use to Miss Fisher if you’re starving away. Come share with us.”

It wouldn’t do to have her standing there, projecting earnest determination at him for the next hour, Jack decided. “All right,” he said, standing and taking the basket before she could reach for it. “Far be it from me to cause any strife between you and your employer, Miss Williams.”

She nodded and led him to the desk, where Collins looked surprised and, perhaps, a tad bit relieved to see him. “I’ve been instructed to share this picnic hamper, on pain of Miss Williams’s great annoyance,” he said, and Collins grinned.

“Better not to risk it, sir.”

“You’ll live a happy married life,” Jack said, and found himself a seat at an empty desk. Miss Williams poured him a cup of tea, and he took sandwiches and fruit with gratitude. They didn’t talk much, beyond a few casual topics. Constables and officers wandered through every few moments, making it a place far less safe than the kitchen table they had sometimes shared. Yet Jack enjoyed the meal nonetheless. He felt buoyed by their loyalty and optimism, by the way that Collins kept glancing toward the interview room with barely concealed anxiety. “It shouldn’t be long,” he murmured at one point.

“These things take time,” Jack said, and it felt better to be in the role of comforting than to be trying to find it for himself.

They were just cleaning up when the interview room door did open, and Phryne walked through, first, head held high, step as lively as always. She paused with hands on hips near the desk. “Tell me you didn’t eat _all_ of the biscuits.”

“No, Miss,” Miss Williams said, and started to dig through the hamper.

Phryne waved one gloved hand. “No matter, Dot. I’ve a mind to engage Mr. Butler’s imagination for a confection tonight.” Her smile was mischievous but somehow a smudge paler than usual. “As I’ve promised the good Chief Inspector that I won’t stir from hearth and home for the night, at least.”

“Just while we clarify some details,” he said, appearing behind her. He didn’t meet Jack’s eye, but Jack wasn’t exactly hoping for a chat with him. No, he was much more interested in Phryne’s side of this story.

Thus it surprised him when Malvin said, “Inspector Robinson, I’d like a few words,” and turned back to the interview room.

Phryne scowled but waved her fingers. “Come along, Dot. If anyone needs us, I’m sure they know exactly where to look.”

Jack nodded at the invitation, then thanked Miss Williams again for his meal before following Malvin.

Inside, Malvin sat before two open folders and two closed, reviewing notes from the latest crime scenes. “Sir?”

“I’ll need to speak with you tomorrow,” Malvin said, not looking up from his papers.

“I’m sorry,” Jack said, “I misunderstood. I thought you wanted a word now.”

“Yes. I want to tell you that, tomorrow, at 10 o’clock, I’ll expect you at City Central for an interview.”

Jack cleared his throat. The tidy tea sandwiches suddenly began a messy dance in his stomach. “An interview. To go over case details?”

“To establish your knowledge of the case, yes,” Malvin said.

Jack’s teeth ground together. “An interrogation, then.”

Malvin finally looked up. “A formal interview,” he corrected, not unkindly, but Jack understood what this meant. “I’m just doing my job, Jack. I hope to God you’ve only been doing yours.”

A hundred smart replies welled up, but Jack simply nodded, years of following orders the best training he could have for this moment. “Understood, sir,” he managed around his dry mouth. “Am I free to go for now?”

“Yes,” he said, then, more softly, “but best to go home this afternoon, Jack. Get some distance from this case and — everything.”

Jack couldn’t remember being sent home on a work day in his life. He’d come to work with pneumonia, once, with a broken hand, with legendary hangovers. He’d come to work the day he was divorced. He’d worked an early shift the day his father had died. To be sent home — that wasn’t normal procedure, and it made his chest clench. “Am I suspended from duty?”

“No,” Malvin said, looking back at his papers. “And I hope it won’t come to that.”

“That makes two of us,” Jack said.

“Tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.” He left with a gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach and the same tight clench around his lungs. He knew where he wanted to go, yet having just heard Malvin entreat him to stay away from the case, and by implication Phryne, it didn’t seem the natural choice.

Returning home was no good, either: he was robbed of decent company, and the chance to inspect his own home in the daylight hours led only to disappointment in himself. He’d barely kept the place up since Rosie had left. Without the housekeeper, he would likely have been drowned in dust by now. It seemed cold and lonely and empty, this house where he barely checked in most work days, where the walls had remained blank for years. He sat there for just a few moments, contemplating his small home and his small life, wondering what it meant that losing even a few hours at work had already made him feel unmoored.

Probably, he thought, it meant he needed to seek a safe harbor, and he knew just the place.

Phryne led him through to the dining room when he rang, and he took a seat at the corner of her dining table and declined an offered pavlova. He did accept tea, however, before he settled in to hear her story.

“…And he was completely stone-faced as I explained that the tapestry was a _gift_ ,” she said. “I’m not sure he recognizes the value of Oriental art, Jack.”

“If that’s the biggest complaint we have, I believe we may count ourselves lucky," he said, and Phryne nodded.

“He seems thorough, if nothing else. He asked plenty more questions about those men than you have so far.”

“No surprise there,” Jack said. “He’s got less, ah, context than I do.”

“Much, much less context,” she said, almost purring, and Jack wanted to smile but could tell he’d failed from her expression. “What is it? What did he say after I left?”

He picked up his teacup and looked into it, swirling it gently. “I’ll have my chance to experience his interrogation techniques first hand tomorrow.”

“He’s questioning _you_?” She scoffed a laugh. “Really. As — a suspect?”

“He didn’t say those words, but — that is generally why someone is questioned.”

Phryne sat back, crossing her arms. “He can’t actually believe that you’ve been out there, what, killing your way through my former lovers?”

“I do have some extra time on my hands,” Jack said, trying for a joke, but the short shake of her head let him know he had failed. “I’m not to return to the station until I report for the interview tomorrow.”

“Oh, Jack —“

“Which doesn’t mean I can’t be of some use to you tonight.” When she raised an eyebrow, he raised one right back. “In investigating. I know you’re pursuing leads. Is there anything where some unofficial assistance might be useful?”

“We-ll,” she said, and glanced toward the kitchen, “there are two gentlemen who I was hoping to, ah, have quick word with this evening. I think you’d make even better company than Bert and Cec would for this particular interview, though —“

Jack sighed. “What laws will we be breaking, exactly?”

“No laws,” she said brightly. “Though it may not be an area you’d be happy to be seen in.”

It wasn’t, but Jack was used to traveling to areas he wouldn’t frequent socially. The men were two brutes who had become friends after Phryne had helped their wives, collectively, escape their marriages. She told him the story as they drove over in her car, explaining that the women had come to her for a discreet interview about their options. Trapped in loveless, abusive marriages (and very much in love with each other), the women had needed cause to make their husbands grant the divorces they badly wanted. Phryne had helped provide that cause, though she dodged when Jack asked how.

“I feel I’ve been interrogated enough for one day,” she said, and Jack let it drop.

They pulled up around the corner from their target, a pub that could barely be credited as such. It was more like a cave with a bar at one end, the air thick with the scent of unwashed, overworked bodies. Two lumpy figures leaned against the bar at one end, more like pillars than actual clients, and Jack’s eyes widened when Phryne said, “Ah. There they are.”

And then things got predictably messy.

The men were half-drunk, just past the point where their inhibitions had lowered but not yet far enough gone to have lost their coordination. Luckily, it wasn’t the type of joint where the bartender was likely to phone the constabulary when things got rough; instead, Jack was able to strong arm one of the men into the alley, while Phryne used a tiny back-up pistol to persuade the other to join them.

He could see even from their initial encounter that these were not their suspects. The men had less light in their eyes than the typical lamppost, though their builds were similar. Under no imaginable circumstance had they orchestrated four murders and a superb frame job in a week.

That didn’t mean they weren’t willing to get started on their own crime spree.

“You got a bodyguard now, sweetheart? Been helpin’ some other bint hide from her man?”

Jack nudged the man against the brick wall a little harder. “Where were you two characters last night and the night before?”

Phryne’s goon snorted. “Where do you think we was? Sumthin’ happen to Moira, was it? Weren’t me, but she had it comin’.”

“Your location,” Phryne said.

“Here,” Brick Wall said. “Where we are every fuckin’ night since you talked me wife into leaving, you fuckin’—“

Jack didn’t need to hear the rest of that sentence, but the alley wall didn’t mind a close up. “You have witnesses?”

“What’re you, some copper?”

He glanced at Phryne. A man this dumb was behind nothing of meaning, and he could tell she knew it, too. “Have you been talking to Jimmy Red recently?” she asked her goon, and he laughed.

“Talkin’, sure. You think I’m gonna tell you and the copper anything about that, though —“

“Oy!”

Jack bent his elbow harder into the man’s back when he turned to look at the sound, and then he probably groaned. A constable stood at the end of the alley, stick out, probably about to go for his torch.

“Phryne, run,” Jack said, shoving his goon away.

“What? I — oh!” she said, as he grabbed her elbow and propelled her toward the other end of the alley.

“Get your car and get home fast as possible,” he said as they ran.

“What about you?”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, “but you can’t be caught. Go,” he said, and turned right when she turned left. He glanced behind him, just once, as he slowed his pace. The constable would go for the easier target, and Jack had, after all, been the man engaged in what had to look like an alley-way brawl.

At least the two goons had gone back to their bar, he thought. They wouldn’t follow Phryne home.

“Oy!” The constable shouted again, and Jack stopped, hands in the air, turning slowly at his command. It wasn’t anyone he recognized, but he was in the wrong district for that. Maybe, he thought, he’d just get out of this with a warning. “I had a complaint from the bar about a pair causing trouble. That you?”

“Might have been,” Jack said. “It certainly wasn’t my intention to be the cause of any trouble.”

“Uh-huh.” The constable gave him a narrow-eyed look. “Wait. You’re — aren’t you police?”

Jack had a fleeting thought about lying. He’d say no, never heard of him, and he’d say he didn’t have ID. Best case, this kid would let him off with a warning and he’d hail a cab and be back in St. Kilda in the hour. Worst case, they’d take him for booking, and the truth would come out — and filter up to Malvin by morning.

“Yes,” Jack said. “I’m — I didn’t catch your name, actually, Constable.”

“Rogers,” he said.

“Constable Rogers. Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, City South.” He didn’t offer his hand. “I’m going to reserve showing my credentials at the moment because I’m trying to keep a bit of a low profile here, if that’s all right.”

“You mean — undercover? Sir?”

“A bit like that," Jack agreed. “It’s — a delicate operation. Actually, you might be able to help me,” he said, figuring he was in for a pound by now. “What do you know about this place?”

“The Black Hare? It’s a dump, sir. Crew of regulars who get into fights about four nights a week. Usually they just take it out on each other, though, and then come back for more the next night. Had a few arrests for assault and public indecency. We suspect there’s a brothel running nearby, but haven’t gotten it pinned down yet. Is that what you’re looking for?”

“No, my, ah, interests are related, but only slightly.” He gestured that they should step further into the shadows, as though he were conducting a sensitive interview. The constable practically beamed. Jack hated to think what Phryne could have done with him. “Have you heard anything about Jimmy Red around here?”

Rogers shook his head slowly. “Not for a month or two, not since he went back to gaol. You mean his mates?”

“Yes, sorry, I should have been clear.”

“Nah, none of that trash comes around here anymore. Think they might have figured this place was a little leaky for their purposes, you know?”

Jack could imagine. The men he’d met would probably have sold Jimmy Red down river for a guarantee of piss-poor pints. He couldn’t imagine they had enough pull to instigate this level of crime.

It was easy enough to thank the young constable and ask for his continued discretion, even in the station house. As he walked to the nearest thoroughfare, Jack hoped the man would be true to his word. All he needed was Malvin getting wind of some extracurricular bar brawling — or that Jack had been sneaking around with a well-dressed female companion.

“Where to, guv’nor?” the driver asked.

Jack thought about it for a moment, then gave Phryne’s home address. He’d need to make sure she had made it home, after all, before he’d get any sleep himself.

* * *

“That was very reckless,” Phryne said, handing him a drink. “It’s certainly not a better outcome if you’re arrested at this point than if I am,” she continued, perching on her own chair. “And I have a rather good record of influencing the law to go my way, whereas you —“

Jack sat in the armchair nearest the fire, glaring up at her. “I would not have been arrested.”

“But if you had been,” she said, insistent, and he looked over. “You know that gaol is particularly unkind to men in your line of work.”

Of course, she would think of that. Jack’s unusual case at the prison had been in the news less than a week ago, and Phryne would have seen it. Of course she would have. When he’d received the call, Jack had thought instantly of George Sanderson, sent away, looking small and old in the provided prison uniform the last time Jack had seen him. It hadn’t been George, but it could’ve been. It kept him up at night, sometimes, thinking of that. He would never have done anything differently, but he wondered, sometimes, what he could have done, if anything, to have kept George from that path.

“No one goes to prison over an alley-way dust up,” Jack said. “And there’s no use thinking about gaol for anyone. We’re all safe, no thanks to those men. Really, did you think they’d have a lead?”

“Oh, I don’t know what I thought,” she said, finally leaning back in the seat. “In my mind they were slightly sharper than they appeared, I’ll grant you.”

He told her what the constable had relayed about Jimmy Red, and she groaned, a sound almost like a growl. “Well. The last workable theory fades to uselessness.”

Jack set his empty glass on the side-table. “Perhaps new ideas will come tomorrow.”

She looked up. “Getting that late already, is it?”

“I do have an appointment tomorrow.”

“Stay,” she said, quietly. “You could, you know.” He nodded, acknowledging, and she frowned. “But you won’t.”

“I’ve found that proximity to you at night isn’t exactly the best way to clear my head,” he said, offering her the smallest twist of a grin, “and I do think tomorrow is a day that will require that.”

“All right,” she said, and stood to walk him to the door. At the threshold, she touched his face, gently, just for a moment, then said, “Sleep well, Jack.”

“Good night, Phryne.”


	7. Another Interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now it's Jack's turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised an update today, but it's a little bit shorter than the last, mostly because of the strange way these chapters break. I hope you enjoy it anyway!

At the Academy, they had practiced interrogation on each other. Jack had sat across a white-topped table from a fellow who had even then seemed a more raw recruit, and he’d responded to the man’s stammered attempts at questioning with silence and sarcasm. That performance, and his dabbling in theater at school, had promoted him to the go-to Interrogation Subject for those years, and he had strangely relished his chance at playing the ignoble man for once. Given a story to stick with, he’d rarely allowed a man to coerce him to telling it.

In his work now, those experiences had provided excellent background into why men broke the way that they did in those small, cramped spaces. Most of their suspects could walk free, if only they kept their mouths shut, controlled their emotions, schooled their features. Yet so few took that opportunity, and Jack had always privately wondered at this. He had perhaps always thought he would be a better subject than those he usually faced.

And yet the next morning, sitting across from Malvin, he thought perhaps he understood something else, that the human urge to reach for understanding was sometimes too strong to ignore. That was what he wanted, now: he wanted a sign that the Chief Inspector understood what a folly it was to question him, to question Phryne, when she was a victim of this entire charade.

It began with the usual questions, asking him what he knew about each of the victims and his whereabouts during their probable times of death. Jack had rehearsed this a bit with Phryne the evening before, and he could tell these pieces honestly, at least.

After some establishment of the timeline, Malvin got around to, “Where were you last night?”

That was tricky, Jack realized. To admit where he’d been would be telling Malvin he’d gone in direct defiance of his order to stay out of the case. It would also put Phryne at the scene of a crime — and Jack had little doubt what Malvin’s reaction would be to that, right now. “Has there been a new crime?”

Malvin’s face gave away little, but Jack took it as a yes, anyway. “Just answer the question, if you would.”

Jack nodded. “It would be easier if I had a time frame. But — I followed your orders, Inspector. I went home, and I was home asleep all night.” 

Malvin nodded, slowly, eyes fluttering down to a folder before him. “Ever heard of Enrique Randall before?”

“I don’t think so,” Jack said, narrowing his eyes. “I may have arrested a Randall once.”

The folder slid over, now, and Malvin flipped the cover open with one finger. A photograph was tucked inside, displaying a neatly dressed, slightly portly man, sitting in an armchair, a drink glass half-fallen from one hand. A black line of blood trickled down his forehead, and Jack could guess his dark hair hid a bullet wound. “Still unfamiliar?”

He had a face that made Jack pause. “I can’t remember where I’ve seen him, but it’s possible we’ve met. I take it he’s been killed and you suspect it’s part of this string of crimes.”

“He had Miss Fisher’s card in his pocket,” Malvin said, sliding over another photograph detailing the content of the victim’s pockets.

Jack frowned at the familiar card. “I’m certain she hands out dozens of these in a week. Private detectives rely on word of mouth.”

“Hm. You don’t remember him, though? You’re certain?”

“Of course I’m not completely certain,” Jack said. “I meet too many people each day to rule out that we’ve met in passing. But I have no recent memories of —“

“So you were nowhere near his apartment building last night at, say, 11:30 p.m.”

Jack had been in a dank bar, rousting two useless men for Phryne at that time. He couldn’t say that, though, not with the way these questions were headed. He’d seen a fair number of men admit to one crime to avoid another before, and he had no desire to join their ranks. “Definitely not.”

Malvin stared at him for a long moment, then said, “Five men dead, all with a connection to Phryne Fisher —“

“Who’s been framed,” Jack said, quickly. “You must see that by now, Chief Inspector. The evidence — that card, it’s terribly convenient, isn’t it? If someone wanted her to suffer —”

“The real victims, here, Jack, seem to be rather dead. And yet Miss Fisher remains unharmed.” 

Unharmed seemed a bit cavalier, he thought, remembering her blank face and exhaustion. “Clearly, their deaths are meant as a message, a warning, perhaps.”

Malvin raised an eyebrow. “Care to elaborate?”

Jack shrugged. “Some kind of unhappy client, or jilted lover, perhaps, or stalker.”

“Someone close who never quite got close enough, you mean?” Malvin said, and Jack nodded. “Someone like you?”

“That’s not --”

“Did you know she’s been seeing another man? Well, actually, multiple others, if the reports are true.”

Jack could feel his face heat. “Miss Fisher is an independent and unattached woman. She is free to see whomever she chooses, for whatever purpose. She owes no explanation to --” me, he nearly said, then corrected to, “anyone.”

“Really. And yet you’re still standing by your alibi the night Scott was killed?”

“I stand by it because it’s the truth,” Jack said.

“So you’re only occasionally lovers.”

“I never said that.”

Malvin raised his eyebrows. “Do you really expect me to believe that you spent the night with that woman chastely?”

“I expect that it shouldn’t matter to you what we do,” Jack said, “as we’re both adults and all that’s relevant to your case is that we were both present and accounted for during the times you’re curious about.”

“Come, now. You’re a smarter man than this.” Malvin flipped open the other folder that Jack had yet to see, the one with photos and evidence of Mr. Scott’s murder. “Someone is killing Miss Fisher’s former lovers, and you don’t think it’s relevant to my case whether you count yourself as one of their number? You don’t think it’s relevant, Jack, that you have a very personal motive for wanting to see these men removed from her life for good?”

Malvin continued, his voice low, as he pushed the folder toward Jack. The man in the photos had probably been quite attractive at one point: his bare arms were muscled, his chest lean. Yet his face was now smeared with blood, a ragged hole visible in his temple and part of his head and hair missing from the other side. The intimacy of it, that the killer had come in so close, called out to Jack. Aligned with the earlier photo of Randall, it spoke of a killer who knew his or her victims well. He hoped Malvin was following up on it, looking for poisons or paralysis agents, re-interviewing Scott’s associates and Randall’s friends and family.

“Haven’t you ever been bothered by her wandering eye? I think it would drive me mad, if my woman ever looked at even half of these men. And she does more than look, mate, doesn’t she? Some of the interviews we’ve had -- it’s a wonder there haven’t been decency charges.” His lips lifted into a half-smile, half-snarl. “I’m reasonably certain she was making a play at Constable Theodore the other morning.”

That, at least, was laughable, and yet Jack felt the barb pierce nonetheless. Of course it was true that Phryne pursued men with gusto, that she had had more assignations than he’d probably had friendly conversations with other women. Did it bother him? In the quiet spaces of his own heart, he could admit to a desire, held close, to be enough for her, to be more than she needed on every level. Yet he knew that it wasn’t a question of being enough, that she was built the way so many men were, that she could love fully and completely, richly and loyally, and yet still be drawn to another’s physical features. He might never get past his instinctual petty jealousy, but at his core, he felt he understood her, felt she understood and respected him enough that they would, someday, reach an arrangement that suited them both. 

But he couldn’t explain this to Malvin. The nuance would be lost. It would be a statement of his own motives. Instead, he eyed the door. He could tell there were no good answers to be given here, and he knew his silence would only provoke more suspicion. “Am I under arrest?”

“Should you be?”

“Dammit, Malvin, you know I’ve got nothing to do with these men’s deaths, and neither does Miss Fisher,” Jack said, slamming his hands on the table.

“I thought I did know that,” Malvin said, and the open implication, that he was no longer sure of Jack’s innocence, hung there, expanding like a balloon, pressing down Jack’s rage until it curled into a dark ball.

“May I go now?”

Malvin nodded. “We’ll speak again soon.”

Leaving the interrogation room, he felt almost dizzy, though the need to move quickly, to do something, overpowered even that unsteadiness. He charged outside, signaling Collins with a quick twist of his hand, and climbed directly into the car. “The station, sir?”

“Yes.” Jack felt relieved to still have his job, and he thought throwing himself back into it might be the only solution today — and for as many days as he would keep it. Work, at least, would provide some respite and a chance to keep his head down. Work, he hoped, would keep his mind focused somewhere other than that great, inflating balloon of Malvin’s suspicion, filling all of the other spaces in his mind.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reflecting and regrouping.

That evening, she was waiting in the parlor when he arrived, wearing a green satin dress and a matching wrap over her pale arms. “Was your grilling as productive as mine?” she asked as he pulled a drink from the tray Mr. Butler offered.

“I doubt it,” he said.

“Oh, a hostile subject, were you?” He understood she was asking with some concern, and he shook his head. As he drew closer to take the seat beside her, he could see a faint shimmer of bruising beneath one eye.

“Phryne,” he murmured, touching her cheek to turn her face into the light.

“Risks of the trade,” she said, shrugging slightly and pulling back from his grasp. “I might have asked a few too many probing questions of Mr. Scott’s grieving sister.”

“Of course.” Jack thought back to the photographs on Scott’s walls, catalogued now the small family, the too-old parents. “She had a strong right hook, then?”

“Not much of a punch, but her handbag packed a wallop.” She smiled, though, which let him know it perhaps wasn’t so bad. “I had to do something.”

“I know the feeling.” Jack allowed himself to sip his drink, remembering with a hot flash of shame the way he’d let his own temper flare at Malvin’s questions.

“What did he ask you?”

Jack raised a brow. “Are we getting our stories straight now?”

“Bit too late for that, isn’t it?” She angled her head, looking at him through her lashes, and the silence held for a moment. “He seemed interested in having some definition of our relationship,” she said after a moment. “I thought he might be eager to press you on that.”

“Risks of the trade,” Jack said. “It’s easier to understand motive when you understand what’s going on.”

“I’m sure, though it’s concerning he’s focused on my motives, or yours.”

Jack nodded and sipped his drink. It felt early in the day to indulge, and yet he couldn’t think of anything better than a cool drink and her warm presence. Beyond the parlor, he could hear the gentle hum of Mr. Butler and Miss Williams chatting in the kitchen, doubtlessly preparing a dinner he’d be invited to share. Suffused, briefly, with warmth, he felt hesitant to speak more about his questioning — and yet he owed her answers and information. They were a partnership in this, after all: she would need to know what he did.

“I did get to see a bit of evidence,” he said, and then told her, quickly, what he’d seen of Scott’s file. She rose to pour them both additional drinks, and while she was up, he said, “There’s also been another victim.” She turned, holding their refilled glasses. “Do you know an Enrique Randall?”

“Rico?” she said, mouth falling open. “Jack —“ She handed his drink over and sunk to one end of the chaise, and Jack took the other. “I’d only spoken to him two weeks ago.”

Two weeks. Well. That was rather recent. Jack struggled to keep his face and tone neutral. “I’m afraid he had your card in his pocket.”

He noted the pale wash of her face, even under her makeup. This bothered her more than the others, he thought with some surprise. Randall had seemed much older than her usual lover. “Yes, I — we met accidentally.” Her hands stirred against her skirt, restless. “I was waiting on someone for lunch and saw him at the bar. When my appointment didn’t show up, he joined me instead.”

“Did he want to hire you?”

She nodded, slowly, one hand touching her jaw. “Just for a petty theft investigation. He thought perhaps his accountant was embezzling a bit.” She glanced over at him, and he was surprised to see her eyes glitter. “Jack, he’d just been engaged.”

“So you two weren’t —“

“Oh, ages ago. He was the Spanish ambassador’s nephew. We met in England… it was a half-hearted fling,” she said, shrugging. “He was older, lovely, far too dull for my tastes but his family had the most splendid parties.” She dabbed gently at her eyelid, then looked back to her drink. “This is distressing news. Did you learn anything else?”

Jack finished his drink and stood to replace it on its tiny silver tray. He felt safer saying this with a bit of distance between them. “I believe his working theory may involve me killing these men in a jealous rage.”

She laughed. “And I believe I’m suspected of killing them for sport. At least your motive makes a shred of sense.”

He turned, fresh drink in hand, and said, “Well. Case closed, then. Shall I turn myself in tonight, or…?”

“Or stay over and really prove the good Chief Inspector’s suspicions true?” Her smile faltered. “Are you in much trouble?”

The truth was he thought he might be. Around the station, everyone still did their work and hopped to when he called, but Jack could feel the new tension. Their Inspector was mixed up in something. Conversations halted abruptly as he crossed the room; a new young constable lingered at his desk, eyes sweeping the paperwork as though he might spot an incriminating file. He could tell he was being cut out of the loop, and not just on this case. Suspension was probably waiting around the bend.

And, of course, it didn’t help that he couldn’t seem to stay out of Phryne’s parlor for more than 24 hours despite Malvin’s warnings. “I expect I’ll be encouraged to take a long-delayed vacation any day now,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. “Though conversely, I have a feeling I’m not welcome to leave town.”

“Jack,” she said, briefly sympathetic, but when he didn’t frown, she lifted her glass. “If you find yourself without work, Inspector, I may be in need of a consultant.”

“I shall keep it in mind.”

He was invited to dinner, and they talked of nothing but the case. Yet the discussion was circular and frustrating, treading the same ground they’d been over. She was making no headway in her own investigations because she was, really, too close to the case; he had made no progress because Malvin’s orders and oversight blocked him at every turn.

“You know,” he said, standing in the parlor after dinner for a final martini, “the most likely suspect would seem to be a jilted lover.”

“Or perhaps a frustrated would-be suitor,” she said, gently smoothing his lapels with one hand before offering him the drink. “Is that why they called you in?”

“I wouldn’t call myself frustrated,” he said with a smile, and she smiled back, wider.

“What would you call yourself?”

The night so far had been so long, the day worse. He liked her closeness and felt vaguely unsettled by it. “Anticipating,” he said.

“I do like the sound of that.” He smiled, taking a sip. “Really, though, you must admit Malvin’s being obtuse. To think you had anything to do with this, Jack, is preposterous.”

“He’s methodical,” Jack said. “Look, I know it’s not my style, or yours —“

“No, I would say not.” She held up her drink. “I don’t really enjoy police interviews.”

“Well, we do try to be accommodating,” he said, but then sighed. “I’ll admit I didn’t much enjoy it either.”

“They don’t actually suspect you, though, do they?”

“I don’t know what they suspect.”

“But you could.” Her voice was raised, a little fast, and he thought both drink and anxiety were suddenly mixing, perhaps for both of them. She had stepped away to the safer distance of the full mantle’s length, and she addressed him from behind the kelly green glow of her drink. “You know every man in that station. You probably trained half of the men Malvin’s relying on. Surely, a friendly, collegial query about the status of —“

Jack shook his head. “It wouldn’t work that way. Not now they know I’m involved. Every man I’ve trained would report straight to the Chief Inspector if I came nosing around. Even Collins might do it, if I pushed too hard.”

“What rubbish,” Phryne said. Her drink clinked against the mantle as her hand flew out, but she paid it no mind. The air in the room had grown warm, Jack thought, warm and close and suffocating. “He’d no more turn you in than Dot would hand me over. I know you’re terrified of the central office, Jack, but giving up —“

He straightened up, pushing free of her fireplace. “I didn’t ‘give up’ on the investigation — it was taken away from me.”

“And then you gave up,” she said, eyes flashing, one finger stabbing the air. “You just rolled over and let the bureaucracy triumph. You let rules win over reason.”

He set down his drink carefully, though a bit of liquid splashed up and over his hand while she drained her glass. “I don’t know what it is you think I do, exactly, Miss Fisher, but following the rules isn’t just a hobby of mine. I’m sorry that, as an officer of the law, I don’t have the luxury of choosing which commands and laws I find worthy of my time!”

Her glass clanked roughly against the mantle again, this time as she abandoned the empty vessel. “And here I thought you at least found the truth worthy of your efforts. Or was I also mistaken about that?”

It hurt, a bit, to hear her throw his integrity at him like a dagger, meant as an insult and a challenge. Her face was flushed with the argument and the drink, and he could feel the blood pulsing through his own veins. This was not an evening for clear-headed discussion, and before he was tempted to throw his own daggers, he knew what the best route would be. “No, I’m sure you’re right, as always, Miss Fisher,” he said. “I’ll take my leave.” He turned without looking again at her burning face and eyes. “Good evening.”

 

It was two hours later that the knock fell on his door. He should have been asleep, and normally, he would have been, but their disagreement still rankled — more so because he thought she’d had a point. Around and around, the words had spun in his head, her accusation of how he’d given up, given in too quickly to Malvin’s demands, been terrified for his own position and left her alone in this situation.

She was standing at his door, something that had never happened before, though he’d never doubted for a second she could find him if needed. “Yes, come in,” he said, aware that it was a risky offer but deciding it looked better for them both if she came in from the street rather than stand alone knocking.

She stood in his small entryway, hands clasped around a small silk bag, and he took in the full sight of her. Gone was the green satin, replaced by black velvet pants and a shimmering shirt, a gold-and-black kimono-style cape, and a tidy matching cap. He wondered if she was passing through after some kind of heist, but bit back the question as he watched her fidget with her handbag. “I couldn’t leave things as they were,” she said, voice nearly too quiet.

He nodded, then touched her elbow, gently, and led her toward the small kitchen table. She was already in his home, after dark, alone, so he decided the intimacy of the setting wouldn’t worry him. Though he’d been accused of making the continent’s worst brew, he set up the kettle and pulled out two cups, both leftovers from his marriage, and began hunting for sugar. There was cream, at least, thanks to his housekeeper.

Phryne nudged the glass at the corner of the countertop. “You’re making me tea, but you’ve been drinking whisky? Now, Jack, is that any way to show your hospitality?”

“Fair observation," he said, looking from the whisky glass to his neatly aligned teacups. “Drink?”

“Several,” she said, smiling up at him, and he nodded, then stowed the teacups. When he’d poured them both healthy slugs of his best bourbon, he sat across from her, not sure what to say.

“Not bad,” she said, after a sip.

“Well, I do try to keep up,” he murmured, offering a false toast.

“Oh, Jack,” she said, and rested her head in one hand. “You’re not the only one feeling compromised by this investigation. I — I know it sounds ridiculous, but lately, you’ve felt like just about the only friend I have left. I’ve been disinvited from 3 separate society events and had four other appointments suddenly realize they were simply too overbooked to see me. Dot’s being counseled by her terror of a priest to move back to her mother’s house, and one of Jane’s classmates even wrote to her about the whole mess so we had to have a despicable telephone conversation yesterday.” She sat up, briefly, to sip her drink. “And it’s absolutely driving me mad that I can’t pinpoint who might do this. I can’t even fathom motive, or, at least, I can’t narrow it to just one.” She moved her chin into her palm and stared over at him. “I believe I may have taken a bit of my frustration out on you, for which I apologize.”

He raised his eyebrows. “This really is good,” he said, “if it’s inspiring apology. Besides which, I feel I owe you one, as well.”

“No. I do understand your job. Your role. You are still of much more use to me still in situ at the station than unemployed on my doorstep.”

He smiled. “I will keep that in mind when making my next potentially career-stunting leap into your casework, Miss Fisher.”

She grinned. “Top me up, will you? Let’s see what else this bourbon can inspire tonight.”

The answer, really, was only slightly more than nothing. They gave up case talk for the night and instead retired to his parlor, sipping drinks in comfortable silence. She perused his book shelves, which, while certainly less grand than hers nevertheless gave him not even a moment’s regret or shame, as the collection was broad and cultured. The gramophone provided a bit of familiar music, a soft waltz that made her smile, though he knew neither of them felt up for dancing. She sat in the most comfortable of his chairs, legs drawn up, refilled glass in hand, and he took a seat nearby on a divan he’d owned during his marriage. It was not how he had pictured bringing her here. In truth, he’d never really pictured it, had always seen them together on her turf, in her ways, in her bright, vivid life.

Under the harsh lights of his own home, he could see how tired she was, how unusually subdued and still. She removed her small hat and laid it on the table, then her dangling beaded earrings, then pressed her cheek against the back of the chair, curling into it. When he touched her hand, her eyes fluttered closed, and she turned it palm up to his. “We will figure this out, won’t we, Jack?”

Her touch made him confident, soothed every burning worry within him. “Well,” he said, proud of his steady, low voice, “we always have before.”

They sat quietly, listening to the music, their hands still joined. Jack felt as though the pressures of this case had left them, were held at bay perhaps by his sturdy dull home. Here, in the gray light of the single lit lamp and the wan yellow glitter of the streetlights from beyond, here they were safe in a way that they weren’t in the bustle of her dynamic, dazzling home. He watched her eyes close, saw the tension begin to leave the beautiful curve of her neck, and he rubbed his fingers gently up her smooth arm. “An invitation?” she murmured, sitting up, slowly, her hand sliding from his.

“I’m afraid I no longer have guest quarters,” he said, offering his hand to help her from her seat and not relinquishing it once she’d stood. “But I believe I can find suitable accommodations.”

“I already find you most accommodating, Jack, I assure you.” Though the tease was right, her voice was quiet, too low, and he squeezed her hand gently to acknowledge her exhaustion. He led her up the worn wooden stairs to the narrow, short hall that had once held his marriage bedroom and the empty hopes of the nursery. Though he’d tried to move past melancholy and nostalgia in these spaces, he had a brief flickering sadness as they crested the stairs, thinking of the many nights that he’d come up to bed, with and without, Rosie.

He didn’t feel for the lights, as he needed none to navigate, just led her to the bedroom that was now his alone. At least in the thin moonlight there was little chance she could yet see how grim and empty the clean-scrubbed space had become. She sat on the edge of his bed while he turned down the covers, and she pushed the cape from her shoulders with slow hands. Exhaustion hung in the air between them like a favorite blanket, thick and comforting, a still against anything sexual. “This is not how I pictured coming here,” she said, blinking, as Jack drew an extra pillow down from the top of his closet.

“I should like to hear that story another time,” he said, settling the pillow on the bed beside her. It occurred to him that he had just made his own intention plain, without ever consulting her — and then in the space of a breath, he realized that he’d known as easily as she had how this night would go.

“Still not up to your standards, Inspector?”

He allowed himself a smile, not sure if she could see it in the dark. “You exceed my standards at every turn, Phryne. But this is not the night for proof. Is your car here?”

“No. Bert dropped me.”

Of course, she had thought of everything. “Is he expecting your call?”

She smiled. “I doubt it. I said I could rely upon you to bring me home.” Her hand lifted from the blanket and touched his face; he bent slightly to ease the contact, to be nearer her warmth. “I can rely upon you, always, can’t I?”

“You don’t need to ask,” he said, smoothing her hair. Her eyes fluttered closed again, and yet he didn’t stop until he was certain she was asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the slight delay in posting, and I'll warn you there might be another thank to the U.S. holiday weekend. Thanks to everyone who's reading and commenting!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get left behind.

He left for work before she had risen, dressing quietly in the dark corner of the same room where she slept, pale and beautiful against his sheets. Everything in his house looked so dark, so harsh, against her delicate presence. The house had, of course, been dull and silent since Rosie had left him, but he hadn’t noticed it so sharply until now. Perhaps waking up next to her — chastely above the duvet, under a separate blanket — had thrown his dreary situation into even starker relief.

There was an image to reflect upon, he thought, though throughout the day his mind wandered mostly to the middle-of-the-night image of Phryne sitting up in bed and removing her complicated blouse, then shimmying out of her trousers, before settling back into his sheets wearing her silky slip.

Perhaps it was that reflection that made him miss the initial chatter in the outer office until Collins knocked on his door, face twisted. “Sir, I believe there’s been some news on the, ah, case concerning Miss Fisher.”

Jack nodded, signaling it was fine to close the door. Collins crossed to the desk, still standing, and said, “Another body was found early this morning. Mr. Peter Thaler.”

That was a name Jack knew — a singer, if he remembered correctly. She’d met him during a burglary case, and Jack had briefly considered him a suspect (wrongly) and a rival (correct). This had been a year earlier, perhaps, and he hadn’t heard or seen anything about Thaler from Phryne since then. “How did it happen?”

“Not sure yet, sir, but — if I hear —“

Jack nodded his thanks and sent Collins out. This made five men dead, an impressive and rapid crime swath. They weren’t just looking for a killer: whoever was behind this was fast, lethal, and had certainly made plans well in advance. Jack lifted his telephone to call Phryne’s home, then realized his mistake with a shake of his head. He stood, gathering his hat, and let Collins know he’d return shortly, carrying the investigation file for the newest robbery as he walked to the car.

She was gone from his place by the time he arrived, the only evidence of her presence the still-mussed bed, a few crumbs of his toast, and her sparkling earrings still on his side table. She’d also left a note tucked under the empty whisky bottle on the kitchen counter: _IOU_.

No time like the present to collect, he thought, and drove directly to her house.

When he arrived, he saw a precinct car already present, and he considered simply circling back to City South. Then he remembered her words the night before, remembered his own regret at having given up too easily, and he parked the car and strode directly for her door.

“Good afternoon, Inspector,” Mr. Butler said. “They’re in the parlor. May I offer you some tea?”

“No, thank you. I don’t believe I’ll be staying too long.” He handed off his hat and coat, then slid the doors open. Malvin stood nearby, in a place where Jack himself had hovered on many occasions, close enough to make a quick escape. Phryne had sprawled over her chaise lounge, one hand cradling a teacup. She wore the same outfit that she’d worn to his door, and he wondered if Malvin could tell; he thought he could only because he was so well aware of her usually crisp presentation.

She looked up and smiled, just slightly, more a relaxation of her features than anything overt. “Inspector Robinson, how kind of you to join us.”

Malvin turned slightly. “This is a surprise,” he said, and Jack nodded his greeting. “Miss Fisher was just explaining to me her whereabouts between midnight and 3 a.m. last night.”

She sipped her tea. “There’s been another murder, and the Chief Inspector would like to ascertain my alibi.” Her look had all the acid Jack would have expected, though he almost winced as she turned it on Malvin. “Just to be completely thorough, I’m sure, and not because he’s jumping to any completely ridiculous conclusions.”

“And I’m sure Detective Inspector Robinson understands quite well why it’s imperative to ascertain the alibis of all of the interested parties when a crime has been committed.” He turned to Jack, and Jack watched Malvin’s eyes narrow. “Which is why I believe I’d also like to know your whereabouts last night during those times, Inspector.”

Jack cleared his throat and didn’t look at Phryne. “Am I officially a suspect, now, Chief Inspector?”

“That might be a strong term. Still, I’d like to know for the records.”

“I see. Of course. I was home last night.”

Malvin nodded. “Can anyone else vouch for that?”

He didn’t look at her, but he could feel her gaze, and he understood that if she hadn’t already told him where she’d been, that meant this was his decision — that while she would have no problem shocking Malvin and letting him draw his own conclusions, she understood what this admission would mean for Jack, professionally and personally, and she was allowing him this moment to back away, safely. Cowardly. “Yes, in fact,” he said, with no hesitation. “Between those particular hours, Miss Fisher could confirm my whereabouts.”

“I see.” Malvin looked at her, and only then did Jack feel he could cast an eye toward Phryne. She had the worst expression on her face, a pleased and arrogant twist to her mouth that he usually loved but, now, feared. This expensive truth might not yet be believed, as convenient as it appeared.

“In fact, that’s why I’m here,” Jack said, and he drew the two beaded earrings from his pocket. As he held them out, he saw her check her earlobes, saw the surprise register, and felt glad he’d seen them. “You left these behind.”

“Always the gentleman,” she said, a bit quiet, her fingers dragging slightly over his as she picked them up.

Malvin cleared his throat. “I’m glad to have this settled,” he said, “though I believe we should likely have another word, soon, Inspector.”

“At your convenience, sir,” Jack said, straightening up. “I do apologize for the interruption. I’m, ah, just returning, so —”

“I’ll call on you at 2 this afternoon, Jack,” Malvin said.

“Yes, sir. Good day, Miss Fisher,” he said, nodding to her, and she raised an eyebrow that he ignored. Then he did exactly as she must have expected: walked out to his car, drove it three blocks past her house, and sat waiting until he saw Malvin’s motorcar slide by before he beat a retreat to her back door. Mr. Butler let him into the kitchen with a grin, and Miss Williams went to find Miss Fisher. He stood in the kitchen, feeling an awkward divide between his role as visitor and, increasingly, expected guest. “Cup of tea, Inspector? I was just putting a chicken salad together for lunch. Will you be joining us?”

That was certainly a sign of his welcome here, wasn’t it? The proper Mr. Butler asking Jack, not Phryne, if he’d be taking a place at lunch. It warmed him and worried him in nearly equal measures. “I’m not sure,” Jack said. “I —“

“Of course he’ll join,” Phryne said, whisking into the kitchen. “You must be starving. I know you had nothing for breakfast.” She raised both eyebrows innocently, taking a seat at the table, and Jack watched Miss Williams blush.

“My toast has never been safe around you,” Jack said, and slid into a chair across from her. “I was coming to tell you about Thaler.”

“Yes,” she said, “and to return my earrings. Well done. I would have hated to return to collect them.” Now the lift of her brow was less than innocent, and Jack was probably blushing. Well, it didn’t matter, did it? Still, he found avoiding Miss Williams’s gaze the easiest plan.

“Might have startled the housekeeper,” he said, and she grinned for just a moment. Mr. Butler slid two teacups before them, serving Phryne first, then turned back to his stove. Miss Williams slid tentatively into the chair at the end of the table, hands folding and unfolding before her.

“Was it really true, Miss, what the Chief Inspector said?”

“I would suppose so, Dot. He doesn’t seem like a man who invents things.” She said this with such dismissal that Jack nearly felt bad for his colleague.

Instead, he asked, “What did he say?”

She shrugged. “He didn’t exactly offer me the autopsy report, unfortunately. But I do gather that Peter was shot at close range.”

Three plates of chicken salad were set before them and a tiered stand with rolls and croissant suddenly appeared. Jack took a small spoon and began to stuff his roll as Phryne continued. “I knew Peter, of course.”

“Yes, I remember him.” Tall with a swoop of messy dark hair and a habit of looking through it too long at Phryne — that was what Jack remembered. They’d heard him sing, together, once in the course of the investigation, and he’d had a surprisingly light baritone voice. Jack had wondered at the time whether his debonair looks had been as attractive to the audience as his vocal stylings.

“Well. I hadn’t seen him in at least a year,” she said. “Oh, perhaps once around town — we shared a taste for Persian rugs.”

Jack set down his little sandwich. “A Persian rug and an Oriental tapestry. Any chance it’s the same dealer for both?”

“Unfortunately, no. Completely different. The rugs came directly from the ship — Bert and Cec did most of my negotiating, actually. I was just there for the pick up, and that’s when I saw him last.”

“By saw him, you mean…”

She made a face. “In public. A perfectly appropriate greeting. Dot was there, too.”

“Oh! He was the one with the purple hat, Miss?”

“Yes,” Phryne said, a bit of fondness creeping into her voice. “Peter did have a flare for fashion.”

Jack took a bite of the sandwich, enjoying a dash of cream and a bite of something, maybe celery or fennel. “Any gifts?”

“Not that I can think of.” She scowled down at her own plate, where hardly anything had been touched. “I’m afraid I wasn’t of much help to Inspector Malvin, either. I rather gathered that he doesn’t think much of our alibi. Do you think it’s a moral problem?”

“Even if anything particularly immoral had happened,” Jack said, casting a glance at Miss Williams’s downturned head, “I doubt Malvin would be surprised or appalled by that. The man’s been police since before the war.”

“So — it’s pure suspicion, then?”

“Yes.” He finished his small sandwich and took a look sip of his tea. “Thank you for the lunch, Mr. Butler. I’m afraid I need to head back to the station now.”

“For your scolding from Malvin?” Phryne asked, also rising.

“For my suspension, most likely,” he said, and she blinked hard, as though she’d been struck. Miss Williams gasped. Jack’s voice stayed surprisingly steady. “I was warned, after all, to reduce my contact with you and stop meddling in the case.”

Phryne shook her head, recovering slightly. “That’s terrible advice all around.”

“You do ignore it every time I offer it,” Jack said, smiling as best he could. He took his hat from the stand by the door and, settling it on his head, tipped it to the collected household. Phryne walked to him and lay a hand on his biceps, and he thought for a thrilling, dizzying moment that she might kiss him. She did, though only on the cheek, and whispered, “Call in later if you can.”

He nodded and made his way out, her perfume lingering in his nose, the light brush of her lips a bright point for his focus as he walked, slowly, to his car.

 

The drive to the station took hardly any time, and once there, he realized he was only a few moments early. He sat in his car for a moment, and before him flashed a full and unfinished career: the early years of fear and adrenaline, then returning from war, angry and frightened in turn. Then the strike, and his lucky break or George’s intervention, and the guilt that ate at him when he quietly took up a better position on its conclusion. That guilt somehow tamped down on the old anger, mixed to become a driving motivation: be better, always better.

And then there were long nights at the station, days where his eyes were glazed by cases, evenings when over dinner his words still held the caustic bite that came from dealing with criminals all day. He could remember in a kind of daze the way that Rosie’s attention had turned from him, the way the blame had laid so heavily on his distance, and they’d never worked out whether to blame the job or the war. Maybe it had been both. Maybe the job had always been his second war, a security blanket between him and the civilian life that threatened beyond.

Today, he knew, that blanket would be pulled away. He would be turned loose from his own station, probably, asked to sacrifice keys and gun and credentials. This time, it wouldn’t be for the strike; he wouldn’t stand with his brothers in arms, wouldn’t have the armor of principle to warp himself in. No, he would just have Phryne — and the truth.

“Enough to be getting on with,” he said, and climbed out of the car.

Malvin waited in his office. Jack nodded and closed the door. He didn’t bother to take off his coat, didn’t want to doff his hat, not yet. “You know why I’m here.” Jack nodded, jaw clenched. “I’m going to call it temporary administrative leave,” Malvin said.

“How temporary?” His voice was only a little rough.

“Indefinite,” Malvin said, “depending on how quickly we can wrap this all up.” He gave Jack a long, searching look, and Jack just nodded.

“Believe me, Chief Inspector, no one wants to see this all wrapped up as quickly as I do.”

“I hope so, Jack,” he said. He shook his head, and Jack could see that this weighed on him, that he wasn’t relishing this relief. “Leave your credentials and gun in the drawer, will you? You can hand the keys to your constable.” As he passed, he said, “I don’t suppose it’s worth it to say, but — you should stay away from her.”

Jack tipped his head to acknowledge the advice, which they both knew he wouldn’t and couldn’t take. It didn’t mean he didn’t see the wisdom in it, of course; he’d given himself the same advice not long after he’d met Phryne, and look where he was now.

Collins came in after Malvin had left. “He said you needed to see me, sir?”

“I’ve been relieved, Constable.”

“What? Sir — that’s — but why?”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “I believe you know the answer to that.” Jack pulled his credentials from his inner coat pocket and looked at them, thumb skimming his own name. Then he folded them and handed them to Collins. “My keys are in the top desk drawer along with my service weapon. Keep an eye on them.” He cleared his throat, then offered Collins his hand, which he shook, looking stunned. “I’ll expect a full report of everything that goes on upon my return. It’s some comfort to know you’ll be here in my stead.”

“Your… sir?” Collins trailed him to the door, and Jack readjusted his hat. “If we need to reach you —“

Jack looked back. “Try the usual places. See you around, Collins.”

“Good luck, sir.”

As Jack stepped onto the pavement in front of his own station, two returning constables tipped their hats as they passed. Jack just nodded, wondering how long it would take for the news to spread. Not long, he thought, and drew his coat back around him. Not nearly long enough.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He still has a station to report to, even if it's not City South.

He woke the next morning at his usual time but had nowhere to be. Well, he thought, as he took his time shaving and then dressing, that wasn’t entirely true. Though relieved of his duties, he certainly wasn’t off of this case. He simply had a different station to which he should report.

Before he could go there, though, he needed to have something to report. Besides, he rarely called upon Phyrne in the morning unless official business demanded it.He didn’t need to wake her. So he ate his toast and had his own terrible tea and took the time to read through the newspaper right at his own front table. He even paged through the edition from the day before that he hadn’t made it around to, scanning through the deplorable coverage of the case. Staring at the clock, wondering how it managed to move so slowly, he left a note for the housekeeper that he had a bit of leave and would be in and out more regularly, so as not to alarm her or require her to leave dinner warming. After that, he took the time to respond to a letter from his parents, leaving out every relevant detail of his current investigation, and he straightened up a few bills.

Then, having dawdled enough, he set out for the task he’d been talking himself into all morning. The cab he called did not belong to Johnson and Yates, which was all to the better. He could only imagine Phryne’s commentary if she saw him riding toward City Central after their argument the night before. However, Jack’s destination wasn’t the station itself but a stone building three blocks away that most of the force knew as The Official.

It was a club for gentlemen that provided three meals a day, lounges, an open bar, and the chance for conversation between men of enough wealth or station or experience. Unlike the exclusive clubs of England, The Official operated more loosely, with an open pub at the front where men could gather for midday drinks or a bit of conversation. It wasn’t this space Jack wanted that morning, however. This club was the one where retired Detective Inspector Harold Jennings spent his mornings and most of his afternoons. Jack knew this because Harry had trained him up, and Harry was nothing if not a man of routines. He would often wear the same socks throughout an investigation to bring him better luck and focus: “if everyone can smell ‘em, we’ve been investigating too long,” he’d used to say. Though most of the force believed Jack had been George Sanderson’s man all along, George’s methods of investigation had been too political, too sideways, for Jack’s own tastes. It had been from Harry that he’d learned most of his own methodology.

“Well, I heard about your troubles,” Harry said when Jack was admitted to the club’s middle parlor. His white hair glinted under the lights — what was left of his hair, anyway. After nearly forty-some years in police work, he’d been retired a few years ago after refusing a promotion one too many times. Jack thought Harry’s future was likely his own, if he could get out of this mess with his rank intact, and it was a comfortable thought. Yet it surprised him to see how small his old mentor now looked, stooped and thin under a slightly worn black suit. His hand trembled just briefly when he reached for his cup on the end table. “Come to seek my endorsement?”

“Your advice,” Jack said.

Harry looked him up and down, and Jack felt every speck of mud from the alleyway, every out-of-place curl in his hair. Fifteen years ago, this man had dressed him down in front of a room of other recruits over a loose bootlace. Now, Harry just signaled to the circulating staff, pointing toward a door that likely led to the dining room. “Better take this to my office, eh?”

They spent a half-hour together in a mahogany booth, in a room deep and dim and likely filled with men Jack either should salute or arrest. Jack described the evidence and his own role in the investigation with as much brutal honesty as he could afford, Harry nodding as he talked through. At the end, while they both sipped tea so dark it blended into the decor, Harry said, “I’m going to tell you two things you don’t want to hear.”

“All right.”

“You need to consider that she’s involved in all of this. Right now, you’ve got blinders on so dark I’m surprised you know it’s daytime.”

Jack frowned. He kept his voice low though he couldn’t hear anyone else’s conversations in the room. Only the clink of fine china cut through the hush. “I’m not sure I can consider that. Besides, Harry — I know she wasn’t at these scenes. Whether or not Malvin will believe it, she was with me during at least two of the crimes.”

“But you’re old enough now that you’ve seen other men quite as well duped.” Harry’s eyes were bright and hard as he stared over the table. “And you’re smart enough to know that’s not going to hold water with Malvin or the court. Not the way the papers are running after her — and you.”

Jack nodded, knowing this was his weakness but unable to do anything to alter it. “What’s the second thing?”

“You need to clear your own name before you’re going to be any use to her.”

“How do I do that, exactly?”

“You know how,” Harry said, eyes narrowing. “Even if you believe her, she’s a liability.”

He couldn’t explain to his mentor, this sensible, crafty old man, how impossible that was. Jack knew he would sound too much like a raw recruit again, like one of those very duped men that Harry had mentioned. So he looked at the table, not sure if he’d been right to come here, not sure where else he could go. “But you never were much for preserving your own position, were you?”

Jack managed a smile. “Now you sound like my ex-wife.”

Harry waved one hand in the air. “I was surprised I didn’t see you after that mess, actually. Good for you, keeping your head above water.”

“You never did like George Sanderson.”

“No,” he agreed. “Ambitious to a fault, as it turns out. Wouldn’t have guessed about the Commissioner, though.” His smile was both satisfied and sad. “What a mess.”

Jack agreed. He accepted the after-meal drink he was offered because he was, actually, off duty, and because Harry encouraged it. After his first sip, Harry said, “Now ask me what you really want to know.”

Of course, the man was always a good interrogator. Jack nodded. “I need information. I’m completely cut off from the station, and — I don’t want to get anyone in trouble, but —“

“But you need to be able to work,” Harry said. “Is Malvin going to help you?”

“Not officially. Unofficially, I don’t think he’d turn a lead away, but he might lock me up for interference.”

“Not a nice time to be behind bars.”

“Never is,” Jack said, but he acknowledged Harry’s point with a raise of his cup. “I haven’t seen half of the evidence they’ve collected. I don’t know anything about the scenes. Even if it’s incriminating toward Miss Fisher, knowing what was there would help pinpoint who could have placed it.” He swirled his drink. “I’ve thought of asking Clary Cormo to help.”

Harry snorted. “Well, it either takes some stones or some desperation to recruit the office drinker to be your help,” he said, then sat back. “You just need the files, eh? Not interested in the evidence itself.”

“I don’t want to impede their investigation,” Jack said, feeling mildly offended at the insinuation. “If Malvin gets there first, I’ll be elated. I just need to know what they’ve come up with.”

Harry nodded, and Jack had the feeling he’d passed an important test. “Call on me tomorrow. If I can do something, I’ll be sure of it by then.”

Jack left the club, trying to tamp down his own hope. He wanted the files, certainly, but even having them — if Harry could come through — wouldn’t guarantee them success. He reminded himself of this as he flagged down another cab and made his way to Phryne’s house, wondering what news she might have and, also, whether she was yet awake.

Mr. Butler opened the door as though he had been expected earlier. “Ah, Jack, good,” Phryne said, rising from the telephone bench. She wore black trousers and a gold-and-black beaded blouse, a fancy but also somehow serious outfit. “I was considering an outing later, and a bit of company might make a difference.”

“Glad to be of service somewhere,” he said, and she gave him a short stare.

“I thought, perhaps, when I didn’t see you last night that it meant Malvin had made another regrettable call.” She kept her voice a bit low, and he appreciated this. He had no doubt her household — and, with the way the papers were covering things, the entire city — would be apprised of his suspension soon, but he wasn’t ready to announce it broadly.

He matched her quiet tone as they lingered in the foyer. “My services are not currently required by the Victorian Constabulary, nor shall they be for an undetermined amount of time.”

“Coinciding with this case?”

“And a successful conclusion,” Jack said, “or my confession, I’m sure.”

“Well, let’s not have that today,” she said, looking up at him through her eyelashes and offering a brief and sympathetic smile. “Lunch?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“I’ve had some thoughts,” she said, and launched into a brief story about Dr. MacMillan stopping in for a drink before producing a set of notes copied from one of the early autopsy reports. “It’s certainly my gun.”

“We knew that already," he said, offering the paperwork back.

Mr. Butler presented perfect slices of cold beef for lunch with a rich potato gratin on the side. Jack turned down the offered crisp white wine, though Phryne had a glass. “Of course we knew, but — I’d been thinking of the loss as exactly that, a loss. Instead, whoever this is, they had the good fortune to acquire my gun. That can’t be purely coincidence.”

“No,” Jack agreed. “Are you quite certain you dropped it in the alleyway?”

“Well,” she said, drawing it out in consideration, and Jack frowned. “It seems possible, now, that I might have parted with it earlier. In which case —“

“I’m not going to like this, am I?”

She smiled sunnily. “You’re suspended, so you have no official duty to dislike what I’m about to tell you.”

Jack took a bite of his gratin to keep from responding and motioned that she should continue.

“I was on an investigation, as I told you. It was a silly thing.” She sipped her wine, one hand waving as though to emphasize the ease with which she had dispatched this case. “Concluded the next day, all parties rather satisfied. Just blackmail.”

He shook his head, setting down his fork as he leaned in. “My experience is that it’s never _just_ blackmail to everyone involved.”

“Mm.” She leaned in, as well, voice lower. “Well. It was a bit delicate.”

“Nevertheless, we’re now dealing with 5 murders. I think you had better tell me.”

She frowned, but he could tell that he’d won. “Very well,” she said. “I learned through a, ah, source that a friend of mine…”

Jack sat up straight, wanting to make this more formal, more serious. “Names, please, Phryne.”

She huffed just slightly, the black feather on her headband swaying lightly. “Very well. Mr. Chambers was being blackmailed over an illicit affair.”

“Chambers… as in Roger Chambers? Head of the railroad trust?”

“The same,” she said. “And a candidate for the commission next year, still.”

“Ah,” Jack said. He took a bite of his gratin to allow a moment’s pause. He’d had enough of tangling with the commission to last a lifetime, but it didn’t completely surprise him that she was mixed up in their business again. “So Mr. Chambers was having an affair.”

“Yes. For some time. It’s — well, it’s a bit sordid, but his wife has her own tastes, she’s out of the country half the year, and his companion is a lovely woman.”

“Sounds downright reasonable compared to what we often see. Who was blackmailing whom?”

“The companion’s brother, a Mr. Daniel Francis, had some business with the railroad. He wanted to have more business.” Jack nodded, finishing his beef and noticing that she’d barely touched her own. “His demands became untenable for my client, and so he asked me to look into whether there weren’t other ways to reach an agreement.”

“He wanted blackmail material of his own on Francis.” She nodded, gazing at him with what he swore was a dare in her eyes, but he decided to leave the debate about this for later. “And you found it.”

“Quite a bit of it, actually.” Jack nodded, waiting. She took a delicate sip of her wine. “It’s where I found it that causes our problem. Mr. Francis kept a rather, ah, graphic log of his blackmail-worthy activities in a notebook locked into the safe at his office.”

Jack sighed. “You broke in.”

“The window was open!” She said, then frowned. “Well, virtually open. Anyway, I acquired this book with the intention of handing it to Mr. Chambers, only…” She trailed off, staring down at her wine glass.

“Please don’t tell me you double-crossed the town’s biggest railroad baron on a blackmailing case,” Jack said.

Her eyes widened in false innocence. “No. But the information in the book — it went beyond Francis's own activities and noted also many of his friends’ confessed sins. To hand that book to an ambitious man like Chambers would have been like giving him Pandora’s box. Don’t get me wrong, I like Roger Chambers, but some of the secrets in that book — well, even I could barely resist sharing them.” She took a bite, finally, from her plate.

“Tell me you burned it,” Jack said.

“I considered it,” Phryne admitted. “In the end, let’s just say, I found it a much safer home, and I used the information extracted from it to reach a mutually beneficial agreement between both men.”

Jack sighed. “How smart is Francis? No, better question: how rich is he?”

“Mm, very,” she said, dragging her fork through sauce she was clearly not going to eat. “But I can’t see him being behind all of this. There’s no benefit to him if I’m in jail. The book stays in secret hiding. He couldn’t bargain with me for its release if I were locked away.”

“Has he tried?”

“No,” she said, “because I made it very clear I would never release its location, and also that I had separated out the sections about him, ready to send them to the authorities and society pages at the first intimation that someone had tried to recover it. Besides, murder is far beyond anything that’s in that journal — and multiple killings seems extraordinarily excessive.”

Jack frowned. “I think you’d better tell me where it’s hidden.”

Now her eyes twinkled. “Better than that, Jack: I can show you.”

They abandoned their lunch plates, his empty, hers half-full, and he gritted his teeth through a ride in her motorcar. When they pulled up in front of his own home, though, Jack had to admit some surprise. “There are easier methods if you wanted another glimpse at my parlor,” he said.

“Though I do, this is still business,” she said, turning to walk through his small lawn. She led him to the small side plot where he had planned and failed to put a garden again this summer. He hadn’t even noticed the small dug-up space at the end of the overgrown row.

“Seemed as safe a place as any,” she said, grinning as she held up a dirt-covered bundle, wrapped in several layers of cloth and waxed paper. “You clearly weren’t going to garden more this year, and I couldn’t keep it at my house. Besides, Daniel Francis is at least smart enough not to go digging around in an inspector’s yard.”

Jack took it from her, turning the earthy bundle around in his hands. A strong desire to label this and cart it back to City South washed up, nearly overwhelming in its habit. He cleared his throat. “I have a safe deposit box,” he said. “I can log it in there tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” she said.

Back inside, the book between them on the table, Jack said, “So you stole —“

“Liberated.”

“— took this book from Francis's safe. How did you lose your gun?”

“He had a security man,” she said, disgusted, as though a man suffering a break-in was beyond contempt for considering that he might need a guard on hand. “And I might have… broken something on my way in.”

Jack rubbed his forehead. “Go on.”

“Anyway, as I was leaving the building, he gave chase, I ran, and coming around a corner I collided with a cyclist. Had a nasty little bruise from the encounter, but it worked to my advantage in the end.” Jack raised an eyebrow. “Gave the girl ten pounds for the bicycle and left Francis's security man in the dust. And, unfortunately, my pistol.”

“So — Francis's man took your gun,” Jack said. “Good grief, Phryne, why didn’t you mention this before? The man should be our number one suspect.”

“Yes, but Francis left for India the morning after we concluded our business. He might have been in town for Oliver’s murder, but I doubt there was even enough overlap that he could be a suspect.”

“Then his security man, at least.”

“Possibly,” she said, but with a tone that let him know she found it ridiculous. “There’s just not a decent motive here. Not really. Francis gains nothing from this mess, and how would he have come by his information, anyway? He doesn’t know me, and he couldn’t have found these men after 48 hours of acquaintance. Besides, I still hold the intelligence on his activities — and he wouldn’t want to risk that publication. No, Francis makes no sense.”

“So someone else nearby must have been watching. You’re sure you lost your gun that evening?”

“Yes,” she said, but then frowned. “I — I noticed it gone in the morning, actually.”

“Do you think someone could have taken it from your house?”

“No," she said, but he could see she wasn’t perfectly confident, and he didn’t blame her. They’d seen too many times that the locks on her doors weren’t safe enough to keep out determined criminals.

“All right," Jack said. “Well, if I had the resources, I’d scour that building where Francis works. Does he own the whole thing?”

“No, just the top two floors for his offices. The bottom spaces are rented.”

“Ground floor businesses? Any shop fronts?”

“Yes, but nothing facing the street. It was too late at night for anyone to see anything.”

They went on like that for a while, debating whether it was worth it to interview the building’s other occupants or whether they should be looking further into Francis and his guard. They landed with considering the guard a person of interest and agreeing that having a new look around the area where Phryne thought she’d lost the pistol would be valuable.

“It still bothers me,” she said as she gathered her coat. “I’ve been by that building loads of times and there was never security before.”

Jack secured his hat and held open the door. “Visiting Francis?”

“No. It’s the building next to my accountant’s building.”

“Ah, the helpful Miss Danforth.” They paused as they entered the weak sunlight past the porch. Jack squinted up as Phryne slid on sunshades. “Do you think Francis was on to you?”

“I doubt it.” She took his arm as they walked to the car. “He’s not the type to believe a lady detective would cause him any difficulties.”

“Good thing you enjoy being underestimated, then.”

“Isn’t it?” He left her at the driver’s door, then walked around to his own side. Driving with Phryne wasn’t his favorite pastime, but he’d resigned himself to it. While he didn’t have use of his police motorcar, he’d be reliant upon her or her cab-driving friends for most of his transportation. This, he thought, was another reason to get his badge back as soon as possible.

They drove back to the district they’d visited at the start of the whole investigation. It was hard to believe it hadn’t been years ago; instead, only days had passed since Brunsen’s murder and the beginning of this tangled mess. Phryne found a parking stall for the car a few blocks away, and together they walked to the alley where she’d been chased by security. They agreed it would be better for Jack to walk inside and confirm if Francis was still out of the country; Phryne would be too easily recognized. “I’ll just look around out here,” she said, gesturing to the alley and sidewalk. Jack knew better than to ask her to be careful.

The building inside had a tiled lobby with marble-facade columns. Four small, glass-doored businesses advertised themselves on an etched wooden plaque by the stairs, which also let him know that Francis Industrial Consulting could be found on the third and fourth floors. Jack took the stone stairs up, wondering how, exactly, Phryne had managed an escape at all from such a height. She was not generally known for her practical footwear choices, though she maneuvered in heels better than some men in boots.

The third floor opened into a small lobby with a curved desk, behind which a tidy young woman with sculpted blonde ringlets sat, smiling. “Good afternoon, how may I be of service?”

Jack cleared his throat. His hand twitched toward the credentials he no longer carried. “I’m wondering if Mr. Francis is in today. Mr. Daniel Francis?”

The short answer, he found, was no. It took him a minute to get there, though, because this girl had clearly been trained not to answer honestly for her boss. However, she was also extremely interested in finding out more about Jack, a curiosity he plied to his own uses. As he left the office, he thought Phryne might be pleased with his less-than-police-like investigation technique, and wondered if he should personally consider that a positive.

He didn’t immediately see her outside until he thought to look in the alley behind the structure. Though Francis's building gleamed with sandy brick and freshly painted window casements, the alley looked drawn from the last century: broken cobblestones sunk into mud, with glass and refuse broken amid the clumps. Though Jack stepped carefully, the grime clung to his shoes and, as she crouched to inspect a missing clump of brick at the corner, to Phryne’s long coat tails.

“What are you hoping to find here, precisely?”

“Well, it would be nice to find the pistol tucked up under some debris, wouldn’t it?” She looked up from the hole. “Barring that — I don’t know. This is where I stumbled. I’d hoped perhaps something else fell from my pockets.”

“Are you missing anything else?” He offered her a hand to get to her feet.

“No.” She gazed up the high walls. He could imagine this alleyway at night: dark, close, echoes of every sound pounding up the bricks. She had been lucky not to be caught, he thought, having attended too many murder scenes in settings like these. “A dead end?”

“He’s been in India since the day of Brunsen’s murder. His wife, too.” They started back to her car. “I did learn something else, however. Mr. Francis does not employ a security guard at night.”

Phryne stopped. “Really?”

Jack shook his head. “This is, of course, just from the secretary’s knowledge, but she did tell me she locks up most nights. The building has no employed security.”

“Most interesting.” They walked on, reaching the Hispano in only a moment. He could practically hear the gears turning in her mind and wondered if she’d already outlined the possibilities. Someone had been following her, it seemed clear. Someone who had wanted to get that very pistol. “How on earth did you get her to tell you that? You couldn’t have been gone more than 10 minutes.”

He smiled, holding open her door. “I may have intimated that I intend to come back at the end of her work day.”

“Jack!” Phryne’s grin was bright and admiring. “Out from under your badge, you’re an entirely different investigator.”

“Now, Miss Fisher,” he said, sliding into his own seat, “how do you know what my previous methods have been? You rarely give me a chance to employ them when we work together.”

“Well then, I shall give you ample chance this afternoon,” she said, still smiling as the car roared to life. “I have a stop to make that it’s best you’re not along for, badge or no.”

“Am I to wait in the car, then?”

“No. A waste of talent and time, I think. Back home?”

He thought for a moment, then offered the cross streets for the library branch. Whether or not she thought Daniel Francis was a threat, Jack could at least find out the official story on him, and on Mr. Chambers while he was at it. Phryne seemed pleased by his choice, but insisted he return to her home before dinner. He turned down her offered ride home, promising instead to find his own way.

He spent enough time at the library to ascertain that both Chambers and Francis were squeaky clean citizens on paper. Francis, actually, had a clearer slate than Chambers, who’d been powerful for enough years that his name had at least been associated with corrupt behavior. Jack’s natural policeman’s suspicion kicked in whenever a man at Francis’s level had not even the slightest flicker of ill behavior associated with his name. Outstanding leaders were, after all, beacons for those who would do harm; it seemed strange that Francis had never suffered a notable lawsuit or even so much as a break-in. In normal circumstances, Jack would have immediately started searching for known associates, but he lacked access to the broad police archives (and to the constables he would have sent to page through them). He’d have to return and read more soon.

He strolled over to his bank and made a quick deposit of Phryne’s pilfered book of secrets. It tempted him, briefly, to read the contents, but he knew the value of ignorance in this case and — as these were definitely ill-gotten gains — wanted nothing to do with having undeserved knowledge. So he walked back into the cool, gray day and paced back to the library slowly, hoping a short walk would clear his thinking.

If Francis wasn’t a suspect, then what had happened to the pistol? Had someone been following Phryne, and if so, why had they gone for the gun instead of simply killing her? Clearly, someone wanted Phryne to suffer. That pointed to a former client, though the personal aspect of the killings implied a personal connection, as well. Jack couldn’t imagine who would want Phryne behind bars — or, well, he could imagine a general sort who would, but the specifics were tricky. In truth, he didn’t know enough about her cases, her work, her clientele to really have any idea about who might be this passionate about making her suffer.

As he continued his stroll, a cab rolled up beside him. “Get in, mate, it’s about to rain.”

Jack glanced over; a tall cabbie leaned out the window, waving his cap. “I’m fine, thank you,” he said, starting to walk on, but the man angled his cab around the corner, blocking Jack’s path.

“Give ya a real good deal,” he said, voice rising. “C’mon. I’m nearly off shift, make my day.”

The side street was small and dark, completely empty, and something in the isolation made Jack pause. “No,” he said. “Get on your way or I’ll cite you for interfering in the roadway.” He let his hand reach toward the empty credentials pocket, and the cabby huffed and threw the car into reverse.

“Awright, awright, just tryin’ to be nice,” he said, rolling away at speed, and Jack stared after him.

This brought up another, interesting question, he thought: if someone was killing off Phryne’s lovers with the intent of making her suffer, why hadn’t they targeted him?

He found a cab after a substantial walk and rode back to her home, mind still caught up in his questions. Phryne was there, too, her muddy shoes by the doorway. She had curled into an armchair in the parlor, and she looked up when he came in. “Good afternoon?”

“Nothing noteworthy,” Jack said, telling her about the research into Francis.

She nodded but looked unsurprised. “He’s wealthy enough, and from a background that would provide for many opportunities to erase bad behavior.”

Jack tipped his head to acknowledge that. “What about you?”

“That,” she said, standing in a whirl of sea-blue-and-green, a far fancier affair than that afternoon’s trousers, “is a story that deserves a drink. Will you be joining me for dinner?”

“I truly have nowhere else to be," he said, and she favored him with a dazzling smile.

“Dependent upon my whims, are you?”

“As always,” he said, smiling when she drew near. “You’d have it no other way.”

“Mm. It’s all a ruse, this whole thing, a fancy scheme I concocted to get you away from work and further into my clutches.” To accentuate her point, she took him by the lapels, drawing him close, and Jack put one gentle hand on her arm.

“Perhaps I’d have it no other way, as well.”

“Just perhaps?” She raised her eyebrow, and she was so close, now, that he could lean slightly and press his lips against that amused arch if he wanted. And of course he wanted — but it wasn’t the time, though that time drew ever closer.

Mr. Butler appeared behind them, making enough noise in his approach that Jack would have had time to pull clear of her. He didn’t want to, though, and he was certain Mr. Butler had seen and heard worse during his service. So he pulled only slightly back as Mr. Butler entered, and Phryne’s smile broadened into something a little less intimate, a little more roundly amused, as she stayed in his personal space. “Jack will stay to dinner,” she said.

“Very good, Miss.” A small silver tray with two sapphire drinks lay upon the side table, and Phryne pulled away after a moment to compliment Mr. Butler on the cocktails. She pressed a small glass into Jack’s hand, then turned so that she was again within his space, her shoulder brushing his chest. “Do ring us for dinner, Mr. B., in case we get wrapped up and forget to emerge,” she said, and Jack nearly choked on his first sip. The liquor was sweet with the smallest bite of lime-sour at the end, but it was Phryne’s teasing tone, the implication of what they might actually be carried away with, that made him pause.

“You don’t really think you can shock him, do you?” he said, quietly, right into her ear.

“I rather think it’s you he might be shocked by.” She turned and faced him, again only inches away. “The right upstanding Inspector.”

“Suspended inspector,” Jack said. “No one should keep their expectations of my behavior too high.”

“Yes, I’m sure we’re about to see such rebellion from you, Jack Robinson.” Their eyes met, briefly, and Jack felt his mouth turn up in a smile. How she had managed to make this day still seem amusing, to make it seem surmountable, he had no idea, but he loved her for it in that moment.

And maybe that shone through, because she touched his cheek, softly, and said, “We’ll figure this out.”

“I know,” he said. “We always do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience and kind words as I get this all up! As I've been formatting, I noticed a loose end with the conclusion that I wanted to tie up, so I'm gently revising it at the moment. That's been part of the delay.


	11. Unexpected Visitors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two unexpected visitors pay a call at Miss Fisher's home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter only because it's also the last chapter before, well, the beginning. Put another way: this chapter happens directly before the preface.

After a lovely meal with Miss Williams, Jack and Phryne had only just retired to the parlor when there came a knock on the door. Jack’s head buzzed faintly from the wine at dinner and from Phryne’s casual-but-clearly-purposeful touches all evening, but he was about to accept a new drink. Phryne quirked an eyebrow, glancing over, and he could see they both felt the same chill of anticipation. Late-evening door knocks were rarely good.

This was no exception.

“We’ll see Miss Fisher, please,” Malvin said, voice low and firm.

Jack set his untouched drink on the mantle, fighting again the feeling of being caught in some indecent act. He squared his shoulders and saw Phryne turn, too, still holding her nightcap. In the low glimmer of the lamps, her dress gleamed like the sea on a sunlit cruise, sharp green-blue waves cascading down, her black fur wrap a line of storm clouds over her bare white shoulders.

“Right this way, gentlemen,” Mr. Butler said. “May I offer you something to drink?”

“This is not a social call,” Malvin said, and Jack noticed, now, Constable Theodore next to him, holding his hat in both hands. Miss Williams appeared in the door to the dining room, hands drying in her apron. “Miss Fisher. Inspector Robinson.”

Jack stepped forward, touching the small of Phryne’s back, gently, reminding her that he was there and happy to be, and she tilted her head toward him, a brief acknowledgement.

“Good evening, Chief Inspector," Phryne said, voice steady and as warm as always. “Are you certain we can’t offer you some refreshment on an evening as chilly as this one?”

“I’ve come to ask your whereabouts this afternoon,” Malvin said.

Jack didn’t dare glance at Phryne. He couldn’t, not to do what he needed. Over dinner, she’d admitted to an unsuccessful attempt at scouting out Daniel Francis’s country home, which had likely involved all manner of illegal activities. To admit that to Malvin was unthinkable. “We were together,” Jack said, just as Phryne said, “Why, has something new happened?”

“Together where, exactly?” Malvin asked. He had yet to enter the parlor fully, standing on the threshold in a way that blocked both Theodore and Mr. Butler from entry. Miss Williams’s eyes were wide behind him.

“We ran a number of small errands,” Phryne said.

“Can anyone corroborate this alibi?”

“Why?” Jack asked. “Has there be another crime, sir?”

Malvin sighed. “A sixth victim was injured earlier today.”

Jack took a breath so sharp he almost didn’t hear Phryne say, “Alive? Is he still alive?”

“At the moment,” Malvin said, “though I’m afraid his prospects are grave.”

“Was he able to tell you anything? Something useful to the case?” Jack asked.

Malvin was looking right at Phryne. “That’s why we’re here. The last thing that Mr. Kent said —“

“David Kent?”

“— was your name, Miss Fisher.” Malvin finally stepped aside just enough to allow Theodore access to the living room, and that’s when Jack saw he was holding not only his helmet but his handcuffs.

“Malvin, you can’t be serious,” Jack said. Beside him, Phryne set her drink down. “I was with her all day. She couldn’t have possibly —“

“We’ll need you both to come to the station,” Malvin said, voice sharp enough to carry over Jack’s protests. Theodore remained at the doorway, eyes narrowed and sharp, looking between the two of them. His eyes lingered on Jack, and he realized he must look ready to fight his way out of the room — perhaps because the idea had flitted across his mind.

“Handcuffs won’t be necessary, of course,” Phryne said. She touched Jack lightly on the arm, and he felt something snap loose within him, a tense knot of resistance that he’d never known he carried. “Dot, my coat and hat, please.”

“Yes, Miss.”

Everything then happened so slowly, as though they were moving through warm water. Mr. Butler appeared with Jack’s own overcoat and hat and held it up so he could slide his heavy arms through. Malvin and Theodore waited in the foyer, eyes never leaving them, and Jack wondered if this was the kind of presence he himself projected in these situations: a bleak reminder of how soon all of this, hearth and home and warmth and security, could be left behind. Then again, he liked to think that the men and women he took to the station were deserving of those deprivations.

Jack watched Phryne slip into her fine long coat, the dark blue setting off the waves of her dress. She paused in the hall to secure her hat with a pin, then looked at Malvin, an eyebrow arched as though to challenge him. Jack could hear her thoughts — would it be considered a weapon? — and said, simply, “Your hat looks fine, Miss Fisher.”

She glanced back at him with a very small, almost abashed smile. He offered his arm, and she took it.

“Well, let’s just go and get all of this straightened out once and for all, shall we?”

Jack covered her gloved hand with his own. “Yes,” he said. “Let’s.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loose ends are officially tied up! Onward with more posting more often! Thanks again for the kind feedback and for reading.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Phryne's arrest, Jack waits, then discovers an unlikely ally.

People sometimes argued in court that their arrests had been a blur, that everything “happened so quickly.” Jack didn’t find this to be true. After Phryne confessed — erroneously, dishonestly — and after he was pulled from the room, time slowed even further. He could count the seconds, hear his own breath scrape against the chilly air of the entryway, feel his heartbeats thud thickly against his ribs as each new arrestee was dragged past him to the cells. The cells: where, shortly, Phryne would be taken, dank and cold and so distant from him as to be the moon.

The wait was interminable. As company, he had his own thoughts and regrets. Their alibi for that afternoon had fallen apart within moments of the interview beginning; they hadn’t coordinated it, and while Jack had been happy to let her take the lead in prevaricating, Malvin wasn’t so bad as a detective. He’d known Jack was the weaker link and had leaned on him for details, which had put Jack into the position of questioning him back.

“And you stayed in the car during this errand, Jack?”

“I had no particular business at the chemist’s,” Jack said, knowing she had chosen that errand to add discomfort to the proceedings, probably hoping to throw Malvin off. “Why? Was this last drugged with something? What was the neighborhood where he was found?”

But Malvin had risen to hardly any of the bait, so Jack now knew next to nothing about David Kent’s attempted murder. He craved those details, now: oh, for a case file, for a constable brimming with eager facts. Oh, for the company of a sharp mind.

The time dragged on.

Maybe an hour passed. Maybe it was minutes. No one tried to press a tea cup into his hands; no one so much as acknowledged him as he sat and waited. It wasn’t his station, but they knew him, sure, just enough to understand the gravity of this, to leave him be.

And then, the appointed moment: The interview room’s door opened.

Jack stood so quickly his head swam. Roaring filled his ears as he saw Malvin step out, one hand trailing back to guide Phryne through the door.

They had spared Phryne the handcuffs, but she already looked different, he thought: the slump of her shoulders was new, frightening, and he crossed to her without thinking. Constable Theodore stepped in his way and Jack wanted to take him apart, but Phryne’s pale hand reached around him, palm up, halting Jack’s advance until Malvin said, “All right, one minute,” and stepped to the front counter.

And Phryne reached up and pulled him close, with no hesitation for propriety — why had she ever had any? She drew him in by his lapels, sunk against him, and he put his arms around her.

So this was it: they would have their moment in this hall, blank and barren and much like the corridor at City South where they had conferred so many times about the fates of criminals. They would have this moment in public, in a police station, and then — and then.

“Phryne, why?” he said, as she settled her cheek against his chest.

“They’d kill you.”

“Then let them,” he said, fierce, hands on her bare elbows, jostling her to look up at him. “Let them try, I’ll —”

“Don’t,” she said, and touched his face with a cold hand. “Oh, Jack. One of us needs to carry on.”

“I’ll get you out. I’ll get — I’ll fix everything, I’ll find —“

“I know,” she said, and it was the way that she leaned into him, the heavy dependency, that frightened him most. “I know.”

“Jack,” Malvin said, soft but firm, but what was he to do? Pull away? Now? When she was leaning on him, when he could hear the tremble at the end of her breath?

“Jack,” she said, and looked up, and then, standing there under the harsh electric lights, Malvin’s heavy breath their sharpest accompaniment, she kissed him. He held her close, reveling in it, the taste of her, the unexpected delicacy of the embrace, the fluttering of her eyelids when she pulled away. “Do be brave,” she said, gentle, not mocking, and his face was wet but hers was dry.

“Phryne,” he whispered, a prayer, pleading.

“Go and tell Dot, will you?” she said, her fingers slipping from his grasp as she moved to Malvin, and he pointed her down the hall, to the cells, the common cells, she would be here all night, he could just — “And go home, Jack,” she said, turning over one shoulder. “No use all of us having a bad night.”

He stood there until he heard the door close, the clank of the metal like a heavy bell tolling, death, doom, every bad thing. And then he found he couldn’t yet move, that the hand he’d extended to the wall was necessary because the world was spinning. Malvin returned and nodded him toward his office, and Jack took a few halting steps after him, unsure even what his status might be. Perhaps he would be locked up, anyway.

It wasn’t a terrible thought, and it was.

“I’m recommending an extended suspension,” Malvin said, “though we’ll call it a leave of absence for now.”

Jack nodded, one hand on the doorframe. He felt ill, still. “How long?” His voice was hoarse.

“Two weeks,” Malvin said, his shrug both careful acknowledgement of their strange situation and a vague insult, a casual dismissal of Jack’s life and career. “Maybe more. I’ll take it up with the commissioner in the morning.” He leaned across his desk, heavy hands once again clasped. “Take my advice. Stay away. From the case, from Miss Fisher, from all of this. The best help you can be to her now is to keep yourself out of it, or you’ll both be facing the noose.”

Jack’s throat closed, briefly, and he rubbed it with one hand, feeling suddenly so desperate and angry that he could barely keep his feet. When he could swallow, he ground out, “You know this is all wrong, Malvin. After all of the service she’s done for this department — “ He saw Malvin opening his big mouth, heavy head snapping up, and Jack cut him off before he could interrupt, a near-growl of frustration ripped from his chest. “After all the service I’ve done, you must — you must know. This isn’t right!”

Malvin stared at him for a moment, and Jack could see that he did know, that he wasn’t completely settled. Hope spread through him like wildfire, warming and lightening him. Malvin said, quietly, “But she’s confessed, Jack. My hands are tied.”

“Just keep her here,” he said. “You can delay processing, delay the court charges. Give me time to work this out.” Maybe he was pleading, but he didn’t care. This was life or death. This was _Phryne._

“How much time?” Malvin pushed his hands together. “Do you have a lead?”

“A few,” Jack said. “A recent case. I just need time.”

The very air thickened with the tension of waiting as Malvin drew one thick hand over his face, considering. The other hand rapped his pen against the desk in three long, lazy taps. “Three days,” he said, after a moment as broad as the sea. “I can give you three days, Jack, but not much more. The papers love this case already, but I can argue to the commissioner that’s why I need to time to tie up all the loose ends. At the end of it, though —“

“I know,” Jack said. She had confessed, after all, and to a pile of crimes that would guarantee prison and hanging. Jack couldn’t think about it.

“You’re not — you know I can’t officially —“

“Yes,” he said, “I understand. Thank you, sir.”

Malvin nodded, slowly, and set his pen down. When Jack had reached the door, his hand on the knob, Malvin said, “Unofficially — let me know if you run into anything.”

“Yes, sir.” 

The case rested again on his shoulders. 


	13. Chapter 13

When he emerged from Malvin’s office, he felt energized, but in the false, pinchy way he often did after an overnight investigation. He could feel the energy at the surface of his attention, in a sparkle at the edge of his vision, but beneath it crept the exhaustion that awaited him when his adrenaline faded. Even just stepping to the desk, remembering his tortured wait on the bench and Phryne at the end of that long, bleak hall threatened to pull him down again.

He turned to the waiting room, legs still unsteady, and wondered what would happen if he just ran for her cell right then. No. No. She was right. The best thing for it was to leave, to charge on. She would be fine for a night. One night.

“Sir?”

Jack looked up. “Collins?”

He wasn’t in uniform, wearing a gray wool jumper and holding a cap in his hands. Jack realized he didn’t know where his own hat and coat had wound up, but before he could ask, Theodore produced them, along with a paper bag. “Personal effects," he said. “The lady said you’d take custody.”

Jack nodded, holding the bag in a tight grasp. “Collins, what —“

“Teddy called,” he said, gesturing to Theodore, who kept staring at the desk. “Could I give you a lift home, sir?” No. He couldn’t leave her. He couldn’t — The phone rang, distracting Constable Theodore, and Collins drew closer. “Please, sir. Dot would be rather cross if I left you here, and she’s worried enough.”

Jack cleared his throat. “Does Miss Williams know that Miss Fisher — that she’s been detained?”

“No,” Collins said, and Jack nodded, leading him out of the station to the street. Walking through the doors, he paused, blinking, feeling a lightning flash of guilt at abandoning her, then he pushed through to the street before Collins could notice.

Standing on the sidewalk, Jack said, “I promised I’d look in on Miss Williams,” he said. “I assume you’ll want to do the same. Perhaps I could tell the whole household at once.”

Collins looked relieved. “Yes, sir.”

“All right.” Jack sunk the hat onto his head but didn’t dare slide into his coat. He would need the bracing air without to settle his head and his stomach. There was, of course, no tonic for his heart. “Let’s go.”

The entire entourage awaited him. Collins led him to the back door, murmuring something about it being only proper since the lady of the house wasn’t at home, and Jack nearly flinched at that. Soon, he promised himself. She’ll be home soon.

Collins tapped lightly on the glass at the kitchen door, and Miss Williams answered with a thin smile that broadened into near-relief when she saw Jack. “Inspector! Is Miss Fisher with you?”

“No,” he said, standing in the narrow doorway, hat in his hands. Johnson and Yates sat on one side of the table, Mr. Butler at the end, hands busy with a pile of recipe cards. A steaming pan scented the air with hot chocolate, and he noticed a small cup at the chair Miss Williams must have just abandoned. She had already turned to pull down two more, and now she looked at him, holding those empty mugs. “No, I’m sorry. She’s not with me.”

“An’ where is she?” Johnson asked.

Jack looked down at the scrubbed floor, tried not to close his eyes. He’d been through probably a hundred notifications by now, letting family know their loved ones wouldn’t be returning home for the worst reasons, but this time felt so deeply personal, so much his fault and his failings, that the words nearly stuck in his throat. He heard Collins take a breath as though to speak and hurried himself through it. “She’s been arrested.”

“What?”

“For what?”

“Those idiot coppers —“

Jack held up a hand. “While I don’t necessarily disagree with that sentiment tonight, Johnson, she’s been arrested because she confessed.”

Now the room paused, held silent by shock. He watched it travel around the table, saw them glance at each other, withdrawing briefly into the comfort of household and family: Miss Williams to Collins, Collins back to Jack, Jack to Mr. Butler, Johnson and Yates to each other and then to Miss Williams, who spoke first for everyone.

“Why would she do that? Confess, I mean?” she said. “We know she didn’t do any of that.”

“That’s right,” Yates said.

“She wouldn’t be taking the fall for you, eh, Inspector?” Johnson said.

“I appreciate that ringing vote of confidence,” he said, trying to smile, “but no. The Chief Inspector in charge of her case has substantial evidence against her — against us both, really, and she made a, ah, a calculated decision, I think, that it was better she be in gaol than I.” He stared at the tabletop, seeing only their fingers gripping the cocoa mugs. “I disagree with her assessment," he said quietly, “but, as per usual, I wasn’t given a choice once she’d made up her mind.”

Johnson snorted, and even looking up at him briefly couldn’t tell Jack whether he was amused or disgusted. Possibly both, Jack allowed.

“Sir, what was the evidence?” Collins said, finally taking his seat next to Miss Williams at the table. She poured him a mug of cocoa, and Mr. Butler walked to the pantry and returned with a tin of biscuits. Jack stayed near the door, hat still comfortably occupying his hands. He didn’t really belong here, not without Phryne to invite him in, to run interference with Johnson and Yates, to cheer on Miss Williams and to champion Mr. Butler. Collins was less an outsider than Jack, even, in this bright, warm kitchen on this dark, chill night.

“Ah, it would take a bit to explain —“

“Well, none of us is going anywhere before we have a plan together to get Miss Fisher out,” Miss Williams said, so definitively that Jack blinked and looked immediately for Phryne, her proud expression already visible in his mind.

“Dottie, we can’t be a part of a jail break,” Collins said, practically squeaking, and Miss Williams sighed.

“I mean legally,” she said, and Johnson and Yates muttered to themselves. “Please take a seat, Inspector. Would you prefer cocoa or tea?”

“I, ah,” he said, and for a moment his mouth was too dry to speak. They would welcome him, he realized. They would work with him — they could all work together. He wouldn’t need to do this alone, even without Phryne by his side. “Tea, please, if we’re going to work,” he finally managed, and when he could look up, he saw Collins beam at him. “Shall I start from the beginning?”

 

* * *

 

By midnight, they had the sketch of a plan. Johnson and Yates would scour the area around Francis's building, asking around about the security bloke that had chased Phryne down the alley. Collins had volunteered to look up Francis and Chambers both at the station to see if either had pending charges or any criminal history. They’d agreed that Miss Williams would contact Dr. MacMillan in the morning to see if they couldn’t gain access to the autopsy results that way. Mr. Butler had promised a thorough review of their wine cellar holdings and to create a list of recent guests that Jack could compare to what Phryne had created.

Jack went home and read the papers that Phryne had left with him which detailed Francis's misdeeds. They were certainly enough to guarantee the man a few awkward conversations with the vice squad, if not a direct arrest, and Jack knew that simply being suspected of frequenting such brothels would likely end Francis's ability to conduct high-level business with men like Chambers. Yet he thought Phryne was right: Francis wouldn’t benefit from an elaborate scheme to see her locked away — unless he had plans to blackmail her somehow, perhaps by hiding the real killer’s identity? No, it still made no sense.

He needed more information. So that afternoon, he had Cec drive him over to the club again, and he waited in the foyer for a few long moments while the concierge went to seek out Harry. It occurred to Jack as he stood there that his own position had changed since his last visit; now he wasn’t investigating a case in which his friend had become entangled: he was a possible co-conspirator in a case where his friend (his ladyfriend? His nearly-lover?) had been arrested and confessed. The possibility that Harry would refuse to see him put a heavy stone in the bottom of Jack’s stomach, and it lifted only slightly when the concierge waved him quietly through to the dining area.

This time, he met Harry in an even smaller, darker booth at the back corner of the room, barely in sight of the bar. Before Jack could say anything, Harry leaned forward, hands wrapped around an empty tumbler. “What I don’t understand," he said, “is why you’d agree to investigate the first three scenes, and why you’d do such a thorough job, if you were involved.”

“I —“ Jack sat up and back, sharply, feeling accused, but Harry continued.

“Half the evidence they have against her comes from your files," he said. “Hell, you’re the one who made the first connection between her and the victims. She willingly offered information about their relationships, let you into her cellar — “ He shook his head. “I could believe she’s crazy, maybe, arrogant enough to flaunt what she’s done in front of Malvin, but this — the way the two of you worked at the Brunsen case, that’s outright stupidity if either of you were involved.” He reached to the side, then slid a brown envelope across the table. “She doesn’t strike me as stupid, Jack, and I know you’re not.”

The envelope felt thick, thicker than Jack would have guessed it even could be. He wanted to tear it open right there, but he instead just held it, waiting, hoping. “Thank you," he said.

“Don’t thank me yet. I read through everything myself last night. You’ve got a lot of answers missing.” He drank the last watery dregs from his glass, then slid it to the end of the table. “But you’ve got some good places to start.”

“Thank you, sir. I — we appreciate it.”

Harry grinned. “Invite me to the wedding. I want to meet this lady detective sometime.”

Jack only nodded. It wasn’t worth it to get into Phryne’s particular aversion to marriage at the moment. He had a pile of reading to do. 

* * *

He carried the file from Harry back to Phryne’s house, where Miss Williams had already set up a command center on the dining room table. “What are all of these?” Jack asked, noticing seven neat piles.

“Miss Fisher left notes about each of the men. The first six,” she said, and Jack noticed she blushed. “Some, ah, detailed notes, about their time together and also possible points of interest or conflict.” As Jack peered at one stack, Miss Williams laid a hand over the top. “She asked that I not reveal them to you unless it was an absolute emergency.”

Jack looked up. “You don’t think her arrest and confession counts as an emergency?”

“Yes,” she said, but she drew the word out and glanced down. “But — I’d like to read them first. It was her request, that I review and release as needed.” Her lips drew together in a thin, stubborn line, or at least the impression of one. Jack could never tell with Miss Williams how much of her bravery was real and how much was the courage of pretending bravery until the real thing came along. The effect, of course, was the same.

“I have police files to review for the time being.” He set his collection from Harry on the table. “Perhaps we can revisit the relevancy of those notes after lunch?”

Miss Williams grinned, relief washing over her face. “Yes. Thank you. I’ll — I suppose I’ll start with Mr. Brunsen.”

“The beginning is often the place.”

They worked in silence for a few moments. Jack was reviewing his own case notes, noticing Malvin’s updates and addenda about the evidence collected: a high-heeled foot print preserved under the hedge at Townshead’s scene; a tuft of black faux fox fur found between John Scott’s fingers. Jack began jotting notes, soon absorbed, and surfaced only when Mr. Butler appeared with tea.

“Mr. Johnson and Mr. Yates left this,” he said, producing a hand-written list from the tea tray.

Jack scanned it and nodded. It was a surprisingly precise list of dates and times that they’d conveyed Phryne around town recently — an attempt at helping build her alibi. He could see the holes in it, but he knew it would be useful. “Thank you. Actually - Miss Williams, do you have Miss Fisher’s diary at all? It would be useful to know where she was going during these times.”

She produced a small calendar from one of the piles. “It’s not a complete record,” she said, somewhat disdainfully, Jack thought. “But she does often note upcoming appointments. Oh! Actually, I should have thought of this earlier. What should I tell her appointments? She has a few today, two tomorrow — “.

“Clients or…?”

“Mostly other business,” she said. “Her club, that’s no problem, Dr. MacMillan will explain, but she was supposed to attend a party this evening, and before that she has the accountant.”

Jack perked up. “Miss Danforth, is it?”

“Yes, that’s the one. Did you meet her at the party?”

“She wasn’t at the party,” Jack said.

“Yes, she was.” Miss Williams sat up, adjusting her tunic in the way she did when nervous. “I saw her when I was picking up the passed appetizers.”

“Ah,” Jack said, frowning. “Miss Fisher must have been mistaken, then. We interviewed her at the start of the investigation.” He paused, thinking of their theory. “I believe I’ll visit her myself. I’ll deliver the message about canceling, but I have a few questions, too. If there’s a connection between these men that has to do with gifts, maybe she can help me track down the particulars of each one.” He returned to his reading, still wading through Francis’s financial records, with the promise of further research to come.

By that afternoon, Jack was ready for a break from reading and research. It surprised him, a bit, at how antsy he became just sitting in Phryne’s dining room, looking at records and files. Certainly it was a more hospitable environment than his office: Mr. Butler drifted in and out with refreshments, and Miss Williams provided increasingly sharp commentary as she, too, rifled through Phryne’s papers. As an inspector, he’d spent entire days sitting behind his desk, poring over reports and dossiers, and he valued the information. Yet Jack felt the need for action like an itch beneath his skin, knowing that every moment he spent in the comfort of Phryne’s too-empty home was one she spent in a cold cell.

So he was up and ready for her appointment a bit early. Miss Williams had suggested, and he had agreed, that he might as well take Phryne’s car since she wasn’t using it. “Well, I suppose it would be a kindness to introduce her motorcar to what it feels like to travel within the legal limits,” Jack said, and Miss Williams grinned and agreed, though her smile was tinged with concern. He knew they both felt Phryne’s absence keenly, and he wished it was within bounds to ask her to accompany him to the accountant’s office. She likely wanted to see some investigating and action, too.

Traveling alone with Collins’s fiancée to interview a witness, however, was likely to lose him one of his few stalwart supporters on the force, so Jack bid her good afternoon.

“I’ll have a look through her notes about Mr. Thaler and Mr. Kent while you’re out," she said, and Jack appreciated the clear invitation to return.

En route, he appreciated the barely leashed power of the Hispano-Suiza, but couldn’t keep his mind completely on the engineering. Malvin’s notes had provided some new information beyond the footprint and the fox fur. They had two witnesses near the park, shortly after Townshead’s probable time of death, who had seen a well-dressed lady and a gentleman having a small argument. In Malvin’s case, this translated to Jack and Phryne arguing after a murder, but Jack felt confident it meant that the killer had not only an accomplice but perhaps a reluctant one. That would be useful as soon as he could identify the possible killer.

Second, Malvin had managed to figure out what Jack and Phryne had not: the gift she’d given to Thaler. Apparently, Thaler had needed money for a recording session, and Phryne had agreed to be a financial backer. Though the investment had paid off, certainly it could be seen as a gift. Jack knew he would have considered that amount of money something more than a parting token.

The jangling bell once again announced his arrival in Miss Danforth’s dull, quiet little office. He waited a few beats in the silence, then called out, “Hello? Miss Danforth?”

After a few moments, Danforth appeared from one of two doors set behind the curving counter. She wore a slim yellow-green calf-length dress that gave her skin a nauseated glow. A long strand of gray beads dangled from her neck, and she had the sleepy look of someone just home from a disappointing party. “I’m sorry, it’s appointment only.”

“Yes, I know. I’m here about an appointment, actually.”

“My secretary just popped out,” she said. “But if you’ll call back in the morning —“

“I’m here about the appointment you should have right now.” Jack’s hand fluttered upward before he remembered he had no credentials, and he brushed awkwardly at his own lapel. “I wanted to let you know that Miss Fisher is unable to make it, today, owing to an unavoidable conflict.”

Danforth’s eyes narrowed. “Unavoidable. Wait. Who are you? We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

“Jack Robinson,” he answered, and realized he wasn’t sure how else to explain himself. “I’m — helping Miss Fisher with some existing casework.”

But Danforth had already placed him, he could tell. Her eyes widened, lit up, and she said, “You’re the police inspector. The fiancé!”

“I’m really —“

“I mean, from the papers, I saw it.” She spoke quickly, now, coming around the desk. “Come in, of course. I’ve been following the story. So many murders! It’s shocking, isn’t it?”

“Yes, quite.” Jack followed her through the second door into a small, neat office with two towering bookshelves and a small cherry wood desk. A small file tray held a single folder; otherwise, the desk was clear, not even a blotter in sight. Miss Danforth settled into her seat and gestured toward one across the way. “I’m sorry to bother you. I know you must have been expecting Miss Fisher herself.”

“It is a shock,” she said, grin almost girlishly delighted. “But then again, it’s no tremendous surprise to have our Phryne Fisher tangled up in murder, is it?”

Jack’s mind caught on her casual, possessive ‘our.’ Either this was someone who knew Phryne well, or she wanted him to think so. “Ah, no, I suppose not.” Jack took a notebook from his overcoat pocket. “You’ve known her quite a while, I seem to recall?”

“Oh, ages,” Danforth agreed. “Even before the family moved and moved up.” She raised both eyebrows, which had been filled in with pencil. “She stepped out with my brother Rafe for a time, you know.”

“I didn’t know,” Jack said. “Recently?”

“Oh, no, long ago.” Danforth’s smile dimmed slightly, but then she shook her head. “Darling lady, though. Wonderful. She’s given me the most excellent references over the years.”

“References,” Jack echoed, a puzzle piece spinning in his mind. “Could I ask — do you know Professor Johansen?”

“Johansen?” Her voice had gone up, just slightly. “At the university, you said?”

He began to nod, but the clatter of the office door opening surprised them both. “Gilly, they didn’t have your usual,” a deep male voice called, “but I found a decent ginger beer, and — Oh. Sorry to interrupt.”

Jack looked back and up, and up, and up, at the man who was apparently Miss Danforth’s step-and-fetch. He was large enough to fill the doorframe with the breadth of well-trained muscles, straining the worn material of his worn uniform. A boxer, perhaps, Jack thought distantly as alarm sirens began to ring in his head. The man was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place him.

“That’s all right, Rafe,” Danforth said, sweet smile replaced now by a twisting sneer. “This is Inspector Jack Robinson. Phryne Fisher’s fiancé.”

Rafe. The brother. Jack looked from his surprised expression to his sister’s and saw the last pieces sliding into place. The uniform — _a driver_. Rafe Danforth was familiar from the cab that had tried to block Jack in the other day. And his sister — the accountant. Who else would have had access to all of these men and their information? Phryne probably had all of her bills sent straight here, including those that detailed gifts she’d given (Johansen, Thaler, and Kent) or received (Townshead), and services she’d requested (like the photographs she’d ordered from Scott). Brunsen, of course, had been a referral. Perhaps she had mentioned Enrique Randall in passing.

He stood on instinct, to make an escape while the mountain of a brother was still surprised, but Danforth suddenly produced a familiar gold-plated pistol. She held it in one hand on top of the desk. Jack noticed her hand didn’t quiver in the least as she gestured he should, again, sit.

“Why now?” Jack asked.

Rafe leaned a shoulder against the door frame, and Jack spared a thought for its sturdy construction. “You’re getting married,” he said, voice flat.

Jack heard the certainty in his voice and decided perhaps arguing with two killers wasn’t going to win the day. Information, however, might. “Who told you that?”

“She did,” Danforth said. Jack looked back at her, saw her bring her other hand up and click off the safety. He sat very still, missing his own revolver, his backup, his handcuffs, his badge. “Our last monthly appointment, she wanted explicit instructions on how to set up a trust for her so-called daughter. Wanted to make it so that if anything happened to her, the girl was taken care of. Law says only a legal guardian can do that, or a relative — and that’s when she let slip that the two of you were engaged.” Before Jack could protest, or ask for clarification, Danforth provided it. “As a fiancé, you could be on the trust.”

They had never spoken of this, but Jack wasn’t completely surprised. Phryne’s lie even made sense, under these circumstances, and he certainly wasn’t going to correct Danforth at the moment. “Are you opposed to marriage?”

Danforth laughed, a nasty, low thing. Jack heard her brother sigh. “Not at all. I value the commitment of marriage. I _honor_ it.”

Jack nodded. “I take it you have found Miss Fisher’s honor lacking.”

“Gilly, you don’t have to,” Rafe said on the end of another sigh.

“Her honor. Do you know how I met the _Honorable_ Phryne Fisher?” She paused, though clearly she did not expect a reply. “My brother was married, once. Lovely girl. Has two boys, Kip and Roger.”

Jack could guess where this story was going, and he knew he wouldn’t’ve liked it even if there wasn’t a gun aimed at him.

“But then he met Phryne Fisher.” She shook her head, and a single tear welled at the edge of her eye. “I introduced them. Right here. Rafe had stopped in to help me build these shelves. He’s a right good carpenter, used to have a good little business.”

“Ex-wife’s father was a builder,” he said, bitterness overwhelming the sadness in his voice. “Used to get a lot of work, before —“ When Jack turned, he saw Rafe staring past him at the blank wall, his expression bleak.

“Once she found out about the affair, Cissy had the ammunition she needed for a divorce,” Danforth said, voice now matter-of-fact. “Never mind that she’d been unfaithful, too. She threatened to take the children if he didn’t confess in court, and then —“

“Then she took them anyway,” he said, and Jack heard just enough anger in his voice to realize that the brother was at least as culpable as Miss Danforth.

Jack held up both hands. “Why kill these men, then? If your quarrel is with Miss Fisher —“

“D’you hear that, Rafe? Man’s her intended and he doesn’t even use her given name.” Danforth clucked and shook her head. “Those men didn’t know what they were getting in to any more than Rafe did. Only thing’s made their lives better was they had the money, the class, that he didn’t. They could carry on. She _ruined his life,_ ” Danforth said, practically snarling. “Seemed only fair to do the same to her.”

Jack focused on her hands on the gun. She’d let it slip, just a bit, so the barrel now pointed to the side. It wasn’t far enough from him that Jack felt reassured, though. “By killing the men she’d known?”

“Not all of them,” Danforth said, and laughed.

Rafe snorted, too. “Not sure how you’d ever find the time for that. Half the city’d be dead, wouldn’t it?”

“We found the the special ones,” she said. Her smile now was proud, clever.

“The ones she’d given gifts,” Jack said, and he looked at Rafe.

Rafe shrugged. “You know, when we were together — it was a suit of clothes. I deserved it, she said.” He stood up straighter. “Like she was paying for —“

“What’s she given you, then?” Danforth interrupted. “That hat? It’s right smart, can’t really see a policeman pulling that off without taking a bit under the table.” Jack made no reply. They weren’t listening, anyway; he was merely a prop at this point, and he hoped they’d soon forget him as a possible threat entirely. “But I guess you’re in line for even more than that. You’re about to climb into the lap of luxury, aren’t you?”

“Not anymore,” Jack said. “Engagement’s off. I’m not much use to her, now I’ve lost my job.”

Danforth laughed. “I read they suspected you. We didn’t plan it that way, but it’s been a nice bonus. Bet that just drove her mad, didn’t it? Her newest lover dragged through the mud on her account. Must have felt pretty terrible.” She said it with such relish that Jack nearly flinched. Instead, he kept himself still and quiet. If he could inspire any sympathy, here — well, they wouldn’t let him go, he was certain of that, but there might be a chance of making a case for delaying the inevitable end. Captivity was certainly a better end than, well, a permanent end.

“If you kill me now,” Jack said, trying for a reasonable tone, “they’ll know it wasn’t her all along.”

“He’s right,” Rafe said. “Gilly —“

“Shut up.” Her whisper was fierce, and the grip on her gun steadied, aimed again at Jack. “I need to think. Do you have any rope?”

“I can go get some.”

“Or your handcuffs,” she said.

Jack held up both hands. “Fresh out, I’m afraid.”

“Not yours, his,” she said, eyes sliding quickly to her brother and then back before Jack could move. “Moonlights doing some security around here. That’s how we got the gun.”

If he sat here long enough, Jack thought, they’d fill in all the holes in the case. He hoped he’d have that chance, though — well, he’d also be happy to get free and hear the rest of the story within the warmth and safety of his station. “Nice bit of luck, that,” Rafe said, grinning.

“It wasn’t luck.” Danforth’s voice was flat and cold. “She told me she’d been working nearby. Wanted to know if I had any news or word about Daniel Francis — as if I’d touch that man’s business with a ten-foot pole. Wasn’t hard to figure out where she’d go look if I couldn’t help.”

True enough, Jack thought. He, too, would have immediately suspected Phryne was planning a midnight raid if she’d been told there was no other way to get to Francis’s finances.

“Should I get the rope, Gilly?”

“Hm,” she said, narrowing her eyes at Jack. “Stand up.”

Jack did this slowly, eyes on her the whole time. It seemed too much to hope that she’d send him out with her brother to get the rope. He didn’t much like his chances with Rafe the Mountain, but they were better odds than facing down Miss Danforth’s gun. He really didn’t like her considering gaze.

He liked it even less a moment later when she sat back, slightly, lowered the gun, and shot him.

Jack had been shot before: once in the war, a graze that had left more psychological than physical damage; once in his first year with the police, when a suspect had fired a pistol while they’d both struggled for its grip, and the bullet had nicked Jack’s calf on its way to cement; and once through the solid flesh of his backside during a chase he cared never to describe. This time, though, the shot was true and at close range, and the pain that flashed up from his upper left leg was an arc of electric fire. He heard two shouts: one was likely his own, one seemed to belong to Rafe. He staggered, clutching his now-bleeding leg, and felt a hole through both sides of his trousers, which were already darkening with welling blood.

It felt — well. Terrible. Beyond the worst muscle strain he’d ever had on his bicycle, an ache and a burn and a feeling like having been jabbed all at once. Jack’s eyes watered, and he gripped the chair he’d just left, lowering himself onto his right hip and studying the injury. Blood seeped through the ragged hole and into his trousers, but it wasn’t gushing, so she’d missed the artery, and he could still stand (painfully), so his leg wasn’t broken. Small favors, he thought. He breathed through clenched teeth, feeling a chill shiver down his chest. Adrenaline.

He looked up at Gilly Danforth, thought it might be in his favor to act more hurt than he really was. If she sent her brother away, maybe he’d have a chance.

“What the hell!” Rafe’s shout carried through the tiny office like a bomb blast. “Everyone in the building will have heard that!”

“No one cares,” she said, but Jack noticed her hands were now shaking. “Go get the fucking rope, all right? We know he won’t go anywhere now.”

Jack tried to look like she was right. It wasn’t hard: his head pounded in counter-point to the throbbing of his leg. Knowing she was watching, Jack put his shaking hands down on either side of the spreading blood stain, gasping as he did so. He could walk if needed, but he thought more dramatic heroics might be soon past his ability.

Rafe left in a stomp of boots and a slam of doors. Jack gritted his teeth, looking across at Danforth. “She’ll get out,” he said. “If you kill me, even if they never find the body, they’ll know she didn’t do it and they’ll release her.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said, though she didn’t sound perfectly convinced. “Her life’s still ruined if I kill her fiancé.”

Would it be? Jack wondered. He remembered the tenderness, the exhaustion, in Phryne’s embrace, remembered how she’d clung to him so briefly at the station. Would losing him, like this, ruin her for good? He couldn’t believe it, and not from falsely modest underestimation of her love for him. No — she had survived Janey’s death, Foyle’s games, and later her father’s disappointments. She would survive without Jack, even if it ended like this.

She had to. He had to believe she would.

“You’re wrong,” he said.

Danforth rolled her eyes. “I should’ve known she’d choose an idiot,” she muttered, and she walked around the desk. The minute she was within striking distance, Jack half-leapt, half-stumbled out of his chair, flinging an arm around her midsection and dragging her to the ground. The gun clattered to the floor behind them, though Jack didn’t know where or how close by: he concentrated on fighting Danforth’s suddenly whirlwinding fists and fingernails, using the full weight of his body to pin her. He had no idea but to incapacitate her, and swiftly, but he’d leapt before he’d found anything with which to restrain her. Of course, there were no handcuffs in his pockets, no gun tucked in his waistband, no billy club at hand — short of hurling her into the desk or the chair, Jack had no weapons but his own hands. And fierce as she was, having already shot him, he couldn’t quite bring himself to simply deliver a knock-out punch to a lady’s jaw.

She, however, had no such compunction, though he blocked her first best attempt. I should learn how Phryne fights, he thought, swatting away Danforth’s second near-hit. He just needed to get hold of the gun. As he angled himself toward the weapon, still fighting off her struggle, he missed the appearance of her brother — and then, with a swift blow to the back of the head, he was out.

* * *

The next solid memories he had came once he was settled in a narrow hospital bed. His eyes fought opening, though his brain kept insisting it was urgent that he look into his surroundings. When he finally did, the light drew a groan from him before he could even process the noise. The room had the bright lighting and sour smells of hospital, and Jack’s stomach shuddered, drawing out another groan.

Miss Williams startled up from a chair near the bedside. “Inspector! You’re awake!”

“It would appear.” Jack’s voice was rusty with drugged sleep, and he accepted a paper cup of water when Miss Williams handed it over. He blinked a few times to establish himself, recognizing what he believed to be the white-and-blue walls of St. Laurence Hospital. A window at the edge of the room let in a sliver of daylight, so he hadn’t been out for long, he hoped. His leg ached in the spaces allowed by his throbbing head, but Jack didn’t recognize any unexpected pain, at least.

“I’m so glad you’re awake. Everyone’s been very concerned, though they’ve assured us you’ll make a full and speedy recovery.” She had her hands folded neatly, one white glove over another, tucked up against a purplish suit. Her hat was slightly askew, and Jack didn’t think he was imagining that the flowers on one side appeared a bit crushed.

Had she been at the accountant’s office? Had — perhaps they hadn’t — “The accountant,” Jack said, voice rising, “Danforth, she —“

“We know,” Miss Williams said, nodding. “I figured it out after you left.”

“You — did. You did?” Jack blinked again. He had no idea how he’d wound up in hospital instead of in the morgue. “What happened?”

Miss Williams smiled, a small, proud smile, and Jack settled in for the story. Sensible woman that she was, Miss Williams had called Constable Collins directly upon making the connection between Phryne’s accountant and her victims. “I knew she’d been at the party," Miss Williams said, taking her seat again but sitting only on the edge. “I remembered greeting her in the kitchen. But if Miss Fisher didn’t know she was there — I realized there could be only one reason.”

“She stole the wine.”

Miss Williams nodded, smiling again. “From there, it wasn’t hard to figure out that all of the men had some connection to her. She had financial records about purchases for most of them, or investments Miss Fisher made based on some personal involvement. Or, in poor Mr. Randall’s case, it was just bad timing: Miss Fisher ran into him when she was supposed to meet Miss Danforth for lunch.”

“Ouch.”

“Are you in pain?”

“No, I — well, some,” Jack admitted, “but I rather meant Mr. Randall’s rotten luck.”

“Oh, yes.” Miss Williams carried on, then, explaining that Collins had rung the Chief Inspector but also taken it upon himself to meet Miss Williams, Mr. Johnson, and Mr. Yates at Miss Danforth’s building.

A knock on the door interrupted her, and Jack looked over too quickly and regretted it; his head swirled and throbbed. “Ey, he’s up, huh? She tellin’ you all about her heroics?”

Jack slowly opened his eyes and saw both Johnson and Yates grinning at him from the foot of his bed. “We may have just been getting to that,” he said.

“Aw, she was beautiful,” Johnson said. “Couldn’t’a thrown that brass planter any better meself.”

“It was a good shot,” Yates said, almost thoughtfully, grinning over at a blushing Miss Williams.

“Well, he was threatening Hugh,” Miss Williams said.

Jack cleared his throat. “You hit someone with a planter. Would that be Miss Danforth’s brother?”

“Big guy? ‘Bout yea tall?” Yates asked, holding his hand far above his own head.

“About that,” Jack said.

“That’s him. Went down like a ton of bricks.”

Miss Williams looked torn between pride and concern. Jack said, “Only fair. He did about the same number on me, from the feel of it.”

“Well, than, I’m certainly sure he deserved it.” She brightened again and finished telling the story: they’d subdued Rafe, and Collins had led the charge into Danforth’s office, where she’d been persuaded to drop her gun by the sight of Collins’s weapon — and his backup, all of whom had been willing to fight hand-to-hand if necessary in protection of Phryne’s honor.

“We are really so glad you’re OK,” Miss Williams said. “I know Miss Fisher will be glad of it, too. Hugh was going to go tell her as soon as he finished with the Chief Inspector. And he’d better listen this time!”

“I’m sure he will,” Jack said, though he would admit to the faintest fear, too. The day wouldn’t be completely saved, he thought, until he heard that Phryne had walked free.

That declaration didn’t come until a few hours later. The light seeping in from the window had begun to gray when Jack woke again — having dozed off through the second re-telling of the story, wherein Yates and Johnson had embellished their own rolls grandly. Chief Inspector Malvin was frowning down at him.

“Sir?”

“I’m not sure whether to lecture you or promote you,” he said, gruff and exasperated, and Jack let his eyes close.

“Perhaps just leaving me where I am would be punishment enough.”

“Indeed. You’ll be pleased to hear we’ve taken Gillian and Rafe Danforth into custody, and we’ve released Miss Fisher with no pending charges. Though I’m still a bit tempted to pursue the interference in an investigation line of inquiry.”

Jack couldn’t keep the grin from his face. Free. She was free. “Too much paperwork, sir. Trust me.”

“I do,” Malvin said, sounding serious. Jack looked over at him, working on focusing. “And I’m glad to know again that it’s not misplaced. When you’re out of here, you’re back on duty.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Malvin smiled, and Jack wondered if he wasn’t a little relieved at this, too. It wasn’t much fun, after all, suspecting and putting away one’s own colleagues. Jack knew this too well. “Any word on how long you’ll be here?”

“Should be out tonight or tomorrow,” Jack said. The doctor who had come in after Miss Williams’s first story telling had explained that he had concussion — no surprise — and had been shot directly through the muscle in his left leg. Though it would hurt, it would heal, given time, and there would likely be little lasting damage so long as no infection set in. Jack had a soldier’s fear of infection, so he would dress it and clean it daily, even if it hurt ten times more to do so. “I expect I’ll be moving a bit slower for a while.”

“Well, you’ll have enough paperwork to keep you chained to the desk for the foreseeable future, anyway.” Malvin stood. “But when you are ready, come by Russell Street, Jack. I owe you a drink — and it sounds like Harry Jennings might have earned one, too.”

Jack nodded and shook Malvin’s hand, and he understood this as something akin to apology. Malvin had been doing his job, of course, and he didn’t need to acknowledge any error, but it meant something to Jack that he had, just a bit, as much as any policeman would do in his place. He watched him leave, and then he stared at his empty hospital room and wondered whether the next person through the door might be, finally, Phryne.

But it wasn’t. Instead, his next visitor was Dr. MacMillan, coming in for an unofficial second opinion and to tell him she was glad the case had wrapped up well. She had spoken briefly with her colleague who was covering his case, and her seal of approval was enough to allow him to be released that evening instead of staying until the next day. Then Collins came by, looking awkward in street clothes but bearing two wonderful gifts: first, a bag from his locker at the police station that held his spare change of clothes, kept for emergencies and ready for wear when he could be rid of his hospital pajamas; and second, smuggled in between the clothing’s layers, a packet of biscuits and a thermos of Miss Williams’s tea. “I hope it’s all right I didn’t come by earlier, sir," Collins said, looking sheepish. “I would have been here right away, of course, but —“

“Collins, you were on duty. Your first responsibility was to arresting the Danforths. I would hardly expect you to abandon duty to check on me.”

Collins smiled at that, relief washing over his face. “That’s what I told Dottie, but she was rather insistent.”

“Well, I expect she’ll have plenty of time to learn the ways that duty sometimes overwhelms personal matters,” Jack said, more gruffly than he intended, and then he paused. “Actually, Collins, never mind me. I think my leg is making me testy. Listen to Miss Williams, I’m sure.”

“I try, sir. Do you need any help, ah, with anything?”

“No, thank you.”

In truth, Jack probably should have asked for a hand. Every time he bent, it felt like his brain was smashing against the bone of his skull, and lifting his leg to maneuver it into fresh pants and trousers made him wince and bite so hard on his lip he nearly drew blood. Still, that seemed preferable to the festival of awkwardness that asking Collins for assistance might be, and Jack was in too much of a hurry to wait for a nurse. He wanted out of the hospital almost as desperately as he’d wanted to be free of Miss Danforth’s office.

When he’d finally dressed in a clean white shirt, drab trousers, fresh socks and undergarments, and his worn braces, he decided to forgo the waistcoat and accessories and just go home. He slid on his trenchcoat, which he was grateful to discover had been rescued from the scene, and hobbled out to meet Collins.

“Ah, aren’t there, they told me you’d need crutches, or… something?”

Jack shook his head. “We’re walking to the motorcar, not running a marathon, Collins. I think I can make do under my own power, or they wouldn’t let me out of here at all.”

The walk down the corridor, the long stand in the elevator, and then the equally long walk back to the front of the hospital nearly proved Jack wrong. He held tightly to the rails of the hallway as they reached the front doors, and he was grateful that Collins ran forward so swiftly to pull the car around that he was saved from having to issue even a token protest. If it was parked far from the building, he would need a rest.

Outside, dusk had settled, leaving a pinkish twilight only at the edge of the horizon. Jack hobbled down four steps to the sidewalk and waited for Collins to pull up, staring up at the blackening sky. He’d faced death plenty of times in his job, and he’d probably had closer calls than the one today. Certainly, in the war, he’d been closer to death and further from control than he had that afternoon. Every escape, though, felt just as sweet, though the lingering appreciation of life seemed to stretch over a shorter and shorter span.

Not this time, he thought, hearing the car round the corner. He would use this new save, this lucky break, to seek some real joy in his life. He would use his escape — _their_ escape — to make real what had long been fantasy.

“Home, sir?” Collins asked, once Jack was settled uncomfortably in the passenger’s seat.

“Have you been to Miss Fisher’s home since her release?”

“Ah, no, sir, though I spoke with Dottie by phone.”

“Was Miss Fisher in?”

Collins blinked rapidly, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel though they weren’t yet moving. “No. No, sir. Not that — I mean, Dottie — Miss Williams — said she left just after supper and hadn’t yet returned, though — I believe she thought she’d be here. I thought she’d be, I mean, it seemed reasonable…” He trailed off, staring forward and looking miserable, though Jack fought a smile.

“I see. Well. Perhaps it’s best you take me home, then.”

“Of course.” He cleared his throat and started up the car.

Jack couldn’t stand for the uncomfortable silence to stand. “I understand I have you to thank for my rescue.”

“It was — it was mostly Dottie, sir.” He blushed a bit, and Jack wasn’t sure whether it was talk of his sweetheart or of her ability to outperform him in his duties that made him color up. “She’s quite clever, really notices things. I was glad to go along, though; that Rafe character seemed a bit rough.”

“Seemed about eight feet tall to me,” Jack said, and Collins nodded, wide-eyed, but smiling.

They drove in mostly comfortable silence to Jack’s house. Jack allowed himself a few moments of unpleasant imagination: she had driven away, given up Melbourne and its accusations and society and headed to Sydney or Perth, somewhere she could make a new name and a new entourage. Or: she’d gone dancing, found a new young thing to bring home, to help her feel free and alive and devoid of any restraint. Or…

No, he didn’t think so. Not after this.

As they rounded the corner, Jack let his smile tip up the corner of his mouth. The Hispano-Suiza had claimed the curb right in front of his sidewalk. “I believe I’ve found her,” he said as Collins slowed to a stop behind the Hispano. “Do let Miss Williams know, will you?”

“Yes, sir. Should I — do you think she should expect her back — it’s none of my business,” Collins said, possibly reading some clue on Jack’s face.

“Quite right, Collins.” He accepted the canvas bag carrying his clothes and then a handshake from Collins, who did, really, look grateful to see that Jack had made it through without serious injury. Then Jack turned and hobbled up his own path. The house before him was dark, shades drawn, but he felt drawn to it as though it were blazing with warmth and gaiety, as though it was the Wardlow itself. Phryne was inside.

On the porch, he paused momentarily to search for his keys before trying the door and finding it unlocked. “Of course,” he murmured, and let himself in. The house was quiet, chilled already by sundown and, likely, a few open windows in the back of the house. Jack kept everything buttoned up when he left, but he liked this, that she’d made herself at home. No glasses sat on the counter, though, and he didn’t notice any bottles missing from his liquor shelf.

He’d expected to find her curled up in his parlor, sipping his whisky and reading one of his books. Maybe she’d be wearing some fantastic outfit and moue of disappointment in his taste; maybe she’d be wearing pajamas that allowed for no disappointment. However, the room was empty, the lamps unlit, the chairs showing no sign of any occupancy.

Puzzled, he limped slowly up to the bedroom, taking care to grip the railing as he went. His leg ached constantly, and he knew he needed to rest it soon. Overexertion could tear the stitches and provide an avenue for infection. He’d have to check the dressing first thing in the morning.

He neared his own bedroom door, which had been drawn nearly closed. A faint yellow light, not bright enough to be his bedside lamp, flickered through the smallest crack between door and frame, and Jack paused there. If she was waiting for him, seduction on her mind, well, he was going to disappoint her tonight. He was standing at that moment through sheer force of will and maybe a bit of adrenaline; these were not the resources he wanted to call upon during their first intimate encounter.

Yet he wanted nothing more than to embrace her as fully and completely as possible. He wanted her — wanted her safe, wanted her freed, but mostly, right now, he wanted her, and he hoped he could be equal to the task of resisting her that evening instead of disappointing them both.

Slowly, he pushed open the door — and then laughed, softly, his entire body filling with warm affection.

Phryne lay on his bed, not in a pose of seduction but in one of deep, complete sleep. One pale hand curled upon the pillow by her mouth; the other had been lost in the overlong sleeve of her borrowed pajamas, which were his best pair, flannel, gray. He admired her for a moment, admiring most the perfect comfort with which she had taken over his space and feeling grateful for the reflected comfort it gave him. Then he slowly pulled off his braces and sat on his foot locker to remove as much of his clothing as he could muster. His second-best pajamas were likely clean and folded into their usual drawer, but Jack didn’t have the energy to pull them on. Instead, he stayed in his undershirt and pants and crawled into bed next to her, folding up against her left side, and she woke long enough to slide one slim arm over his chest. She smelled like flowery soap and deep, sweet sleep, and Jack breathed her in, holding her and secure in her warmth, until sleep overtook him, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue coming... soon? I'm stuck on it, but at least our mystery is resolved now!


End file.
